


My Big Fat Warden Wedding

by wombuttress



Series: The Wedding [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Blatant lies, F/F, F/M, Gen, Heartwarming, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Humor, an all around dinglerumpus, moderate tomfoolery, one large brouhaha, several kerfuffles, the awakening kids - Freeform, the blight kids - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-06
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-05-12 04:25:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 23,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5652379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wombuttress/pseuds/wombuttress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alistair is not married to the woman he loves. He is very unhappy about this, and has plans to change it. If he can ever work up the nerve.</p><p>Tabris does not like weddings. She'd had one. She hadn't liked it. The very thought of having another one makes her skin crawl. But dammit, if Alistair wants a wedding, he'll get a damn wedding. A small, quiet wedding.</p><p>Leliana can abide many things. But a small wedding for the Hero of Ferelden and the almost-king of Ferelden is assuredly not one of them, and she'll commit any number of atrocities to prevent it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Groom

If Alistair Theirin had become king, he would have been married by now.

He would have married Anora Mac Tir, and spent every day suppressing rude (but very funny) remarks about her traitorous murdering father. Or perhaps he would have married some other noblewoman to quickly solidify his claim to the throne. This marriage might even have been arranged by his own lover, who he would then be driven to abandon for the sake of honor—not that she would have tolerated being his bit on the side, anyway.

But, Alistair Theirin—who had given up the name Theirin alongside his claim to the throne—did _not_ become king, and as such, he was decidedly _not_ married to the woman he woke up next to every morning.

He was very unhappy about this, and had every intent to change it.

If he could only figure out how to ask.

It had been just the same way before they had gotten together. He’d stumbled over his tongue and blushed and talked nonsense until she had simply grabbed him by the ears and pulled him down for a kiss. His first kiss. And then later, when things had gotten more serious, well, it had been worse, if anything. His rambling declaration of love must have gone on for at least five minutes before she’d smiled and pulled him into her tent.

But he was determined, absolutely _determined,_ to get it right this time. He’d do a grand gesture. He’d have a ring forged, set with precious gems—and he’d have it _enchanted—_ and he’d present it to her in the courtyard, littered with rose petals, and he’d say—he’d say—

Something foolish, probably.

Or, well—she didn’t really like romantic gestures. Perhaps he could make it dramatic, say—on patrol, right after slaying an ogre, with all of them covered in darkspawn blood, and just as they were catching their breath and relishing that they still had any at all, he’d “spontaneously” make the proposal. Right in front of all the other wardens and everything.

But then again—darkspawn blood really was quite disgusting, and usually after encounters with darkspawn there were injuries, and his lover was a fanatically devoted commander who would think of absolutely nothing but the safety of her wardens until everyone was accounted for. Perhaps not, then.

Oh, void, maybe he’d just track down Leliana and ask her what to do. But Leliana was off somewhere in Orlais doing…sneaky bard things, probably. Who knew when he’d see her next?

So Alistair woke up every morning besides Warden-Commander Tabris, a beautiful, amazing, flawless woman who he was not married to. For _now._


	2. The Engagement

It wasn’t morning yet. The rays of the pre-dawn sun had barely broken over the horizon when Tabris woke.

Nearly dawn, she thought. Just about time to be getting up. There was a mountain of paperwork waiting for her at her desk and a keep full of new recruits who needed her careful guidance and protection. The Commander of the Grey had no time to be lazing around in bed.

“Alrian,” Alistair whined quietly. The use of her given name—permitted to be used only by Alistair, and only in private—never failed to make her heart skip. “Sun’s not even up yet. Go back to sleep.”

This was usually the part where she told him that she had work to do, disentangled herself from him, and went about her day. But she’d been up late the previous night. Hardly unusual, but she hadn’t even been up late doing anything fun.

She sighed and relaxed back into the pillows. Just this once, then.

She had almost drifted off back to sleep when a thought struck her. She turned over and faced her lover, propping herself up on her elbow. “Hey,” she said. “D’you want to be married?”

“Mhm,” Alistair replied sleepily.

“Oh, good.” Tabris yawned and turned over again, pulling the blankets up to her chin. “Let’s be married, then.”

“Mhm.”


	3. The Engagement, pt 2

“Wait,” Alistair said, alarmed, and suddenly fully awake, approximately five minutes later. “Did you just propose to me?”

“Muh,” said Tabris, who was already most of the way asleep.

“Alrian!” he said urgently, shaking her by the shoulder and causing Barkspawn to make a displeased _boof_ sound at the end of the bed. “Did you just _propose?”_

She blinked sleepily at him, startled at the rare use of her given name. “Yes?”

“Well—yes! Of course I’ll marry you! I love you, I want to spend the rest of my life with you—I just—” He ran his hands through his hair. “I wasn’t imagining it quite like this.”

“Now hold on,” Tabris said grumpily, propping herself up on her elbow. “I said let’s _be_ married. Not _get_ married. I really am not a fan of getting married. But I thought we had really better be married, because otherwise you’re going to spend the next five years staring at jewelry displays thinking of how to ask me.”

“I would not,” he protested, though he would.

“You would and you know it. Now that we’re married, let’s go back to sleep.”

“Hold on, you can’t just decide to be married! You’ve got to, you know, go to the Chantry, and invite all your family and friends, and get drunk.”

“No Chantry,” Tabris said adamantly. “Yes drunk.”

“So, what, I just go around introducing you as my wife now?”

“Sure. That sounds nice.”

“No, I don’t accept it. I insist that you marry me, madam!”

She sat up in bed and looked exasperatedly at him. But after a moment, she gave a wry smile. “Alright, then,” she sighed. “Let’s get married.”


	4. The Bride

Tabris didn’t like weddings.

She really, really didn’t like weddings.

She’d had one. She hadn’t liked it. It had ended with her would-be husband dead, her wedding party kidnapped, and her wedding dress bathed in the blood of the filthy shemlen who had done it. She’d been hissing and spitting and desperately trying to stab every human in sight by the end of the ordeal, including the one who had ended up saving her life. Her father had cried, Soris had cried. It hadn’t been a good time.

As far as she was concerned, Being Married was the important part. She didn’t see what the point of all the fuss with the Chantry and the dress and the audience was. Anyway, she was busy. She had the entire order of Grey Wardens in Ferelden to look after, as well as an ancient darkspawn magister and, more often than not, all the local townspeople.

But damn it, if Alistair wanted a wedding, he would bloody well get a wedding.


	5. The Announcement

They came down to breakfast in the entrance hall, as usual. They greeted their friends and comrades in arms, as usual. They procured an astonishingly large amount of food for themselves, as usual.

Breakfast conversation proceeded normally. The table discussed troop movements, plans for the day, and the weather. It was quiet. Tabris felt wonderfully at peace. There was no Blight, no archdemon, no hordes of warring darkspawn. There was absolutely no crisis going on at all. She was content.

This lasted for all of five minutes, at which point Alistair could no longer help himself. “We’re getting married!” he announced.

The effect was immediate, and awful. Tabris gently laid her head on the table.

She could hardly even hear Varel’s genuinely pleased congratulations over Oghren’s cackling. But even the cackling was preferable to what came next, which was a stream of unending innuendos that grew steadily less decorous and less coherent as he went on.

“Truly, this shemlen?” said Velanna, ignoring him and wrinkling her nose. “Commander, you know I’ve come to respect you, but sweet Mythal, your _taste.”_

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Anders. “He looks rather like me. I’d say our Commander’s taste is excellent.”

Velanna’s noise of disgust almost drowned out Oghren, but not quite.

“All of you are ridiculous,” Nathaniel said, but then turned to Alistair. “Although, I have to say, while you have my congratulations, if you ever hurt her—”

“If anyone ever hurt the Commander, the Commander would break their legs. But we don’t have to worry about our Alistair, do we?” Sigrun said sweetly.

“Of course not,” Anders said happily, slinging an arm around the groom. “What we have to worry about is planning the bachelor party! You’ll come, won’t you, Nate? Oghren? Justice?”

“Stop corrupting Justice!” Sigrun said. “I know what happens at bachelor parties.” Then she turned eagerly to Tabris, whose forehead was still firmly on the table. “Because it’s the same thing that happens at bachelorette parties and ooooh I can’t _wait!”_

“Actually,” said the spirit, who did not eat breakfast but enjoyed the company, “I have quite a few memories of Kristoff’s marriage to Aura. Though I don’t believe he had a bachelor party. What does it involve?”

“Ohoho,” Oghren chuckled, pausing mid-innuendo to pat the spirit on the back. “Well, if ole Oghren has anything to say about it, it’s going to involve a whole lotta—”

“Not at the breakfast table,” snapped Mistress Woolsey.

“Oh, but we’ll have to invite _everyone,”_ Sigrun said gleefully. “It’ll be just like my funeral, only less gloomy.”

“I suppose I could instruct you in traditional Dalish wedding customs,” Velanna said grudgingly. “You ought to know them, of course. They’re complicated, though, and you’ll have to be sure to get them right, and so will your shem fiancé, mind you.”

“Just think of the booze!” Anders said. “Ah, we haven’t all gotten properly hammered since we killed the Mother. And Alistair wasn’t even here for that! Oghren, you’ll have to make your special brew.”

“We don’t want to _kill_ them,” Nathaniel protested.

“We should contact _all_ the wardens!” Sigrun said gleefully. “The _Hero of Ferelden_ is getting married, they’ll all want to be there. Stone, I bet all of Amaranthine turns up after what happened at the siege.”

“I bet Anora turns up out of sheer relief.”

Alistair had been sitting silently and listening in growing horror, wondering what he had unleashed. He glanced nervously at his fiancé, whose head was still on the table.

Suddenly, she raised her head, and slammed her fist on the table, rattling the cutlery and interrupting everyone talking at once. The entire table fell silent. “It will be a small ceremony,” she said. “It will be here. Seneschal Varel will officiate. It will be quiet. It will be secular. We will invite _only_ family. And a _few_ friends. There will be no fuss. None whatsoever! Now.” She took a deep, shuddering breath, and rose slowly from her seat. “I am going to take care of some paper work. “

And she turned and stalked away, and paused at the doorway. “And I am _not_ wearing a dress,” she announced.


	6. The Wedding Planner

Tabris really thought she’d successfully avoided the worst of it after her announcement at breakfast. Though she still endured no little amount of ribbing from her comrades, it steadily decreased in volume over the weeks. They had set the date for the following week. Alistair would get his wedding. They would be married. It would be Nice.

And then Leliana arrived at the Vigil.

Tabris felt rather than saw her approach. Almost like sensing darkspawn. Then the woman herself entered the Commander’s office.

“My dear warden!” she exclaimed, opening her arms.

“Leliana,” Tabris replied, smiling tightly. She rose and accepted the hug, because it wasn’t every day you saw an old friend who’d helped you stop a world-destroying abomination. Leliana kissed her on each cheek, which was terribly Orlesian, but which Tabris tolerated patiently because it was, after all, Leliana.

“What brings you here?” the Commander inquired. “I thought you had business with Mother Dorothea in Orlais.”

“I’m not so busy as to have no time to visit my dear friend, yes?” Leliana smiled angelically.

Leliana was not a terribly imposing person. She was slim-shouldered and hardly taller than Tabris, who was short even for an elf. Tabris had even wondered more than once whether her friend was elf-blooded, after hearing her sing that one night at camp. Her soft, freckled face was smiling amiably, and held none of the icy intimidation that Morrigan’s carried more often than not.

Tabris felt sweat drip down the back of her neck. She gripped her desk tightly. “Of course.”

Sweet Andraste, it was worse than the Landsmeet.

“So,” Leliana began casually. “How is Alistair?”

“He’s fine,” the warden replied. “Good. Great. You can ask him yourself. He’s around here somewhere.”

“Any big news?” she questioned sweetly.

Tabris could take no more of this. She slammed her fist on her desk. “Who told you? Who’s the traitor?”

Leliana’s big round eyes widened ever-so-slightly. “Told me what?”

“About the wedding,” Tabris hissed. “Who betrayed me? Tell me!”

“A wedding? Oh, how _marvelous!”_

“Don’t pretend you didn’t know! It’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

“My dear friend, I confess I heard rumors of upcoming nuptials, but I am to understand that the date is set for next week? And I thought, that simply couldn’t be true. A week isn’t nearly enough time to make all the necessary preparations . I thought, surely— _surely—_ my very best friend in all the world would never hurt me so grievously as that by having such a small wedding?”

Leliana was still smiling.

Tabris held her gaze for many long moments.

“You’ll never take me alive!” the Warden-Commander declared, and leapt out the window.


	7. The Preparations

But it was no use. Leliana was a hero of the Fifth Blight, and though she enjoyed less notoriety than the Warden-Commander, she was deeply respected. Within hours, she had recruited nearly the entire Vigil in her wicked machinations.

None of the Warden-Commander's vain protests had any effect whatsoever. Her entire order of wardens was lost. No longer were they her loyal women and men, sworn to defend Thedas from the Blight. Now they were but Leliana’s minions.

Her traitorous soldiers had had lives and professions before they had become wardens, which Leliana ably ferreted out, and assigned them to be decorators, caterers, invitation writers, dressmakers (she would _not!_ ), and a whole host of horrible things Tabris didn’t even want to think about. They frittered about the Keep like ants in their hills, grinning and rushing around like madmen. And at the center of all this activity, occupying the Warden-Commander’s place in the Keep—formerly a throne, which Tabris had replaced with a desk and some comfortable reception chairs some time ago—was the architect of it all, Leliana herself, presiding over the proceedings like a broodmother over her offspring.

“How could you turn to her side?” Tabris asked bitterly, as two of her men—good men! Loyal men!—gently lead her away from the entrance hall where Tabris had been busily shouting at everyone to cease and desist at once.

“Please, Commander, we only want you to be happy,” Warden-Recruit Haren said. “You deserve a special day.”

“And what’s _your_ job in this operation?”

“We’re Commander-Soothers,” Warden Powell said cheerfully. They sat her down at her private desk, and placed some paperwork in front of her, and a quill in her hand. They brought her some tea and congratulated her again.

“Get out of my sight, you miserable traitors,” Tabris growled in a fair imitation of Barkspawn.

“We love you too, Commander.”

Some time later Alistair was shoved into the room, the door slamming behind him and the key turning in the lock.

“So she got you too," Tabris said sullenly.

“I was only trying to help,” he said, slightly stunned.

“That’ll do it, dear,” she sighed reaching up to pat him on the cheek. “It’s no use now. We’re caught in the storm. We can only hope to survive it.”

“Perhaps I shouldn’t have written her,” Alistair said, a mite guiltily.

“So it was _you!”_

“I know, I know! In my defense—well, at least we’ll get to relax for a while.”

Tabris sighed. “I suppose that’s true.”

“So…do you want to have sex on the desk?”

“ _Maker,_ yes.”


	8. The Family

When the messenger brought word of Tabris’s family arriving at the Vigil, she crept out of her office to greet them. Seeing her father and cousins would make all this infinitely easier. A quiet dinner with the people dearest to her in the world was just as she needed.

She came into the entrance hall and froze.

She cleared her throat. “Haren,” she said. “When I permitted Leliana to invite my family, I meant my father, Shianni and Soris. Not _the entire alienage.”_

Shianni fought her way out of the throng first, darting to Tabris and nearly bowling her over. “Don’t blame her,” she said, hugging her cousin. “They insisted.”

“ _All_ of them?”

“Well, since the Arlessa is paying for it all—”

“ _Who?!”_

Haren cut in. “That’s you, Commander, remember?”

Tabris sighed, embracing Soris and Cyrion in turn as they emerged smiling from the crowd as Barkspawn hopped around their legs and yipped excitedly. “I’ll send word to the kitchens, then.”

Dinner was in the entrance hall, as there was no room anywhere else for so many people. Tabris and Alistair sat at the head of the massive table—really a bunch of smaller tables pushed together—as the extremely extended Tabris clan feasted better than they had in years.

Tabris was vaguely considering simply housing the entire alienage at the Vigil permanently and making sure they ate this well every day.

She looked to Alistair, who was making amiable—if somewhat nervous—conversation with one of her distant cousins.

“I don’t suppose we should invite Goldanna, should we?” he said, catching her eye.

Tabris suddenly and overwhelmingly became full of rage. “Why the hell would we do that?”

“Well.” His fingers tapped on the table. “She is family, isn’t she? I haven’t really got anyone else.”

Tabris looked around. Cyrion and Senechal Varel were chuckling together—she had a single hideous thought that it was over some ancient childhood story about the esteemed Commander. Shianni and Velanna were talking closely, listening and nodding together. Soris was sitting between Sigrun and Nathaniel, laughing nervously. She couldn’t hear individual conversations amidst the din of elves and wardens come together.

Tabris took his hand on the table. “This is your family,” she told him. “You’re marrying into a damn big one.”


	9. The Party, concerning the Bachelor

“This is going to be _amazing.”_ Anders was rubbing his hands together with glee in a manner that Alistair didn’t like at all. He liked Anders. He really did. He was glad to know the man as a fellow warden and not as his jailer at Kinloch Hold. But he was almost as bad as Zevran.

Zevran himself had arrived that very morning at Leliana’s behest. Apparently, he’d had to slay twenty Crows, catch a ride with some pirates, and steal a caravan in order to arrive in time for the party. “Of course, I would not miss it for all the world,” the assassin had said shortly after scaring the shit out of Alistair by arriving through the window in his and Tabris’s room.

He’d been busily bantering with Oghren about their circus troupe and making eyes at Anders ever since.

Alistair really hoped that an literal actual spirit of Justice would keep them from doing anything indecent, illegal or immoral, but the innocent, fascinated curiosity with which the spirit observed the proceedings wasn’t making Alistair feel any better.

Perhaps he should pin his hopes on Nathaniel instead. Nathaniel was serious. Nathaniel was boring. Nathaniel and the big stick up his ass would keep him safe.

Or perhaps Tabris’s cousin Soris would. Although, he looked fairly terrified and he was pretty sure Zevran had grabbed his backside at least twice so far.

“Now this here,” Oghren declared, slamming a tankard of something corrosive on the table, “will sodding well put hair on your skinny nuglike chest. Drink up, my boy.”

“Woof,” said Barkspawn, who of course had been invited.

“Oho, not yet my friend,” Zevran said, snatching it away. “Any of us drinks that, we’ll be under the table for the entire night. And that would be no fun! No, we will begin with a fine bottle of Antivan red and proceed to Amaranthine, where many festivities await our pleasure.”

“Feh! Weak-boned nughumpers, all of you.”

“That’s me, alright,” Anders said. He slung an arm around Alistair’s shoulders pressed a bottle into his hands. “Now drink up! We’ve a long and most excellent night before us!”

“Woof!”


	10. The Party, concerning the Bachelorette

Tabris sat in her Commander’s chair with her arms crossed and tried to look as grouchy as possible.

“I don’t want to,” she said stubbornly.

“But why not?” Leliana whined. “I recall you were quite gregarious at the festivities following our victory at Denerim.”

“Yes, well,” Tabris hmphed. “In that case, I was not being unwillingly thrown a wedding by my evil, so-called friend.”

Shianni crossed her arms and set her chin in a way that meant she would not be deterred. Tabris still couldn’t believe her own dear, sweet, beloved cousin had so miserably betrayed her by throwing in her lot with Leliana. Maybe it was the red hair. It was full of deceit. “Cousin,” she said. “You are being ridiculous. We haven’t gotten drunk together in ages. Can’t you try and have a good time for me?”

“We got drunk together last night!” Tabris protested

Shianni appeared not to have heard her. “Come _on,_ cousin. It’ll be tame, I promise. Just a nice quiet night with us girls. Or, um…us girls and Shale.”

“Shale is a girl,” Tabris said. “Sort of.”’

“Look, I’ve invited Mistress Woolsey,” Leliana said. “How bad could it be with her there?”

Tabris made a noise of disgust and threw her arms in the air. “Fine! For you, Shianni. But only because I’ll never have any peace with the both of you haranguing me. And because Alistair will be busy at his party, anyway.” She rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Andraste’s tits, I hope they get him back to me in one piece.”

“I’m sure they will,” Leliana said, patting her on the back and leading her away from her office. “Now, let’s have a nice, quiet evening over a bottle of wine together, yes?”


	11. The Party, concerning the Conclusion of the Party

Alistair awoke on the floor, which was troubling enough.

He remained on the floor, drooling slightly, until the strain on his back grew great enough to prompt him to groan, shove himself upright, and cradle his aching head.

There was something stuck to his face. He unstuck it, and slowly gathered the will to open his eyes to examine the object.

It appeared to be a game piece.

He stared at the tiny metal figurine of a clothes iron in consternation, attempting to divine its meaning.

He chanced a glance around the room. It appeared to be the same room they had started in. Oghren was face down in a puddle of something sticky—breathing, thankfully. Soris was mostly in Zevran’s lap, and Zevran was mostly in Anders’ lap, who was mostly in Nathaniel’s lap. Nathaniel’s head was not visible, as it was covered with a large cardboard box labeled ‘JAIL’. All three of them were lying in a puddle of Barkspawn’s drool. Justice was the only one upright, but didn’t seem to be exactly awake. He was staring hauntedly out the window, the little blue points of light in his sunken eyes flickering steadily. There were bottles everywhere, as well as several overturned bowls of snacks, thoughtfully brought to them by Seneschal Varel. Colorful pieces of paper littered every inch of the floor.

In the center of the carnage was brightly colored cardboard square, with various metal and wooden figurines arranged on its surface. It appeared to have been struck by lightning several times, and partially set on fire.

Alistair struggled to remember.

It had all started when…Soris had suggested they play a quick round of a popular alienage board game. Nathaniel had dug it out of the depths of the warden game closet, they'd begun to play, and then...

Had…had they actually left the room?

Alistair thought. He didn’t think they had. They hadn’t even made it as far as the door.

He groaned. He considered waking Anders for a quick hangover cure, but felt that was as good a way to get frozen into a block of ice as any.

He staggered up and went to go find his fiancé.

Tabris was sitting in the entrance hall in her robe, sipping tea from a steaming mug. “Morning,” she mumbled to him.

“Nrrragh,” he replied, his head thunking on the breakfast table.

“I know,” she said sympathetically, patting him on the back.

“Where’s everyone else?” he asked. “Still asleep?”

“Let’s see.” She tapped her chin. “I think Shianni and Velanna are still in the tree…Leliana hasn’t gotten back from hiding their smallclothes in exciting places around the Keep…and we lost track of Mistress Woolsey hours ago. I think it’s wisest not to go looking for her.”

“That’s nice, dear,” he said blearily. He sniffed. “What’s that smell?”

“Probably the burning ogre corpse we left in the courtyard after we got done, er, cavorting around it.”

“Oh. That’s nice.”

“Oh, and here comes Leliana now.”

The bard looked rather worse for wear as she sat down at the table. Her red hair was in furious disarray, and her pink robe was torn and burned in several places. “Alright,” she said, giggling. “I admit that might have been a bit much.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Tabris. “I had fun.”

Alistair yawned. “ ‘lo Leliana.”

“Hello, Alistair.” She seemed distracted. “You haven’t seen Shale, have you?”

“No?” Alistair said uncertainly.

“Not since Sigrun rode off on their shoulders as they threw boulders at trees while cackling,” Tabris said.

“Blast. They owe me ten silver after what I did with that cheese wheel and those pigeons.”

Tabris rubbed her temples. “Ugh, I really don’t want to figure out who owes whom what. Not until I’ve had some of that Par Vollen coffee.”

“I think we all owe Mistress Woolsey our lives. Possibly even our souls.”

Tabris paled. “I am never looking at that woman the same way again.”

Alistair sipped his tea. “I’m glad you had fun.”

“Oh, I’m sure it was nothing compared to your night.” Tabris patted his hand and rose from the table. “Now I’d better go get Shianni and Velanna down from that tree. Hopefully they will no longer be quite so entangled.”

Alistair yawned again. “Alright, dear.”


	12. The Rings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably my favorite chapter in the whole fic.

One sleepy morning—insofar as the chaotic days of the wedding preparations could be considered sleepy—after the damage of the bachelorette party had been mostly cleaned up and paid for, Alistair came to a horrible realization.

_He didn’t have any wedding rings._

He tore out of his and Tabris’s bedroom half dressed, before she had even fully woken, and made a beeline to the person he knew would know the most about shiny gold jewelry.

“Anders!” He called, banging on the door. “Anders, wake up!” This would be perfect. The mage wore an obscene amount of gold jewelry every day. You’d almost think his soon-to-be wife was decorating him like a Satinalia tree.

The door rattled with the power of a force spell and Alistair could hear grumbling from inside the room.

“Anders, answer the door! Pleeeeaase?”

After several long moments of unhappy stomping about and distressed meowing, a highly disgruntled ex-apostate answered the door, Ser Pounce winding around his ankles.

“What is this, a Templar raid?” he demanded.

“Er, sorry,” Alistair stammered, trying not to notice that Anders apparently slept naked. “Er, uh. That is to say. I need your help.”

“I told you, I don’t do hangover cures. Go sleep it off.”

“It’s not that. I need a ring for Tabris.”

“And you’re asking me?”

“Oh, come on, you’re practically a walking jewelry store. You know about these things.”

“Most of these were gifts!” Anders said indignantly.

“Gifts from who?” Alistair raised his eyebrows.

“…The Commander,” the mage muttered ruefully.

“So you know the kind of thing she likes! Come on, we have to get to Amaranthine.”

The mage sighed. “Fiiine. But only because it’s the Commander. Just let me get dressed.” He slammed the door and went about his morning ritual as Alistair tried desperately to forget all the intimate places Anders had piercings.

After what was surely an eternity, Anders emerged in his ridiculous feathery robes and arsenal of jewelry, his hair neatly arranged. Alistair grabbed him by the wrist and dragged him downstairs, eager to be on his way.

On their way to the stables, they nearly barreled right into Velanna, out for her early morning…nature communing…or whatever it was she did at dawn.

“Watch your step, shem!” she snapped.

“Ooh, excuse me, Princess Elf.” Alistair rolled his eyes.

“Don’t be childish!” she admonished. Her eyes flicked to Anders. “Where are you running off to so early, anyway?”

He decided to just tell her. “Getting wedding rings for Tabris.”

She sniffed and crossed her arms. “Well, I hope you’re getting rings fit for a proper elven wedding. Otherwise the marriage won’t be legitimate in the eyes of the Creators. As I’m sure you already know, as a good husband-to-be to our Commander.” She harrumphed and began to stalk away.

Alistair hesitated. “Velanna, wait!” She turned slightly, raising one eyebrow. “Er…do you suppose you could come along, and show me which rings are fit for a proper elven wedding?”

She lifted her chin, and slowly walked back, her hands on her hips. “Well…I _suppose_ I could come along and instruct you. If you asked politely.”

Alistair sighed. “Please, Velanna?”

The elf smiled. “Of course, human. Anything you wish.”

“Yes, yes,” Anders said irritably. “Let’s go so I can get back and take a nap.”

\--

“So,” Alistair said slowly, “I need how many rings?”

“Nine,” Velanna answered. “One for each Creator, each enchanted with a different magical essence. It is necessary.”

Alistair glanced at Anders, who was examining a display of necklaces with interest. The mage caught his eye and shrugged.

“Alright, then,” Alistair said hesitantly and turned to the jeweler. “How much for nine enchanted rings?”

\-- 

“Wait, Velanna, why are we here? This is the butcher’s.”

“Yes, this is where we’re going to get the goats blood. Traditionally the groom is supposed to slaughter the goat with the bride’s mother, but we can make do.”

“Er, hang on.” Alistair withdrew a scrap of parchment upon which a long and confusing list was written. “What’s the goat’s blood for again?”

“To consecrate the boughs of the linden tree, from which you must weave a girdle and wear it under your clothes every day until the wedding.”

“But the wedding is over a month from now!”

“You heard me correctly, human.” Velanna set her jaw and crossed her arms. “Unless you imply that the Keeper of a Dalish clan does not know of what she speaks?”

“No, no, you’re right. Sorry. Goat’s blood it is.”

“Good. Once you’ve bought everything on the list, we will head to the Wending Wood.”

“The Wending Wood? But there’s nature all over it,” Anders complained.

\--

“Okay, so I’ve consecrated the linden tree and cut down the boughs. What else do we need here?”

“How are you at carving?” the elven woman said. “She needs seven ironwood tiaras, one for each day after the ceremony. And you must absolutely carve each one yourself, under the light of the stars, from within a fairy circle.”

“What’s a fairy circle?” Alistair whispered to Anders.

The mage shrugged. “An elf thing, I guess. I’m going to go take a piss. If I don’t come back, assume I’m in trouble and come rescue me.”

\--

“Velanna, are you absolutely sure that this is—”

“Of course it’s necessary!” she said indignantly. “Are you casting aspersions on my expertise?”

“No, of course not!” Alistair wiped sweat from his brow. “So how do I get the halla to come near me?”

“Ah, you see, halla adore honey and mint leaves. Just slather yourself in it and stick the mint leaves on and the halla will come right to you.”

“Right. Makes sense. And after I’ve gained the halla’s trust by praying to Gil-Galad—”

“Ghilan’nain,” Velanna said impatiently. “Mother of the Halla.”

“Right, yes. After I’ve done that, I need to lead her to the bridal bedchamber?”

“Yes.”

“But our bedchamber is on the fifth floor. Do halla like going up stairs?”

“Not particularly, no.”

Alistair paused, distracted by a flight of birds and an accompanying distant crash. “Where’s Anders?”

Velanna glanced around. “Oh, I…I don’t know.”

Alistair paled. “We lost Anders.”

Velanna’s brows scrunched together. She put a hand to her mouth. “If anything’s happened to him the Commander will never forgive me.”

“Wait, you have forest magic, right? Can’t you do your…underground, root travelling thing?”

Velanna nodded. “Yes, I should be able—”

At that moment, the distant commotion grew sharply louder and closer. Then Anders crashed through the underbrush, thorns in his robes and terror in his eyes. “I don’t mean to alarm anyone,” he said breathlessly. “But there might be a very large and angry bear coming this way very quickly.”

\--

“You know, but this works out,” Velanna said, gesturing to the great bear corpse as Alistair wiped blood of his blade and Anders cast healing spells. “You actually have to spend the night in the hollowed-out corpse of a great bear in order to better commune with nature before the wedding, so this is quite convenient in a way.”

Alistair fell back on the soft turf and groaned.

“And don’t forget, you have to wash the bride’s father’s feet for at least two hours to show your devotion to the family. Otherwise you’ll forever be considered an outsider.”

\--

Tabris had had a long day. After the initial arrival of Leliana and her subsequent recruitment of her entire order, it had taken a while for life to return to some semblance of normalcy. But after all, wardens were still wardens. In peace, vigilance, and so on.

After a long day of vigilance, grateful for some routine, Tabris went upstairs to deposit her blades and armor in her bedchamber. She was ready for a long bath and some dinner. She’d had to go without her best mages and favorite warrior on patrol, and as a result, was unusually heavily covered in darkspawn muck.

At the door to her bedchamber, she paused. She examined the scene in the room, puzzled. She looked at Barkspawn. The mabari let out a soft, concerned “boof”.

Then, without first removing her armor, setting down her weapons, or having a bath, she turned around and went back downstairs.

She headed to the mess hall. There she found her missing party members. Anders was picking burrs out of his feathers. Velanna was innocently writing in the blank book she’d given her ages ago. Alistair, for some reason, was covered in honey and mint leaves, and was busily carving some kind of wonky hat out of wood.

“Alistair,” she said patiently. “Why is there a halla in our bedchamber?”


	13. The Reunion Dinner

Wynne was a sturdily built woman—and what she had lost to age, she more than made up for with the ability to create an impenetrable wall of rock between herself and any threats.

Of course, she hadn’t thought it would be necessary upon her arrival at Vigil’s Keep. After all, while having a person barrel gleefully towards one and crush one in a tight hug was certainly overwhelming, Warden-Commander Tabris was, after all, very small.

Only she hadn’t counted on Alistair doing it, too. Right behind their mabari.

And then Oghren. And Leliana, and Zevran. Thankfully, Shale abstained.

She was pretty sure Zevran had taken the opportunity to grab her backside, which she graciously did not mention. Just this once. Next time, he’d be getting a fireball directly up the swishy leather skirt.

“My favoritest mage ever!” Alistair smiled widely when the dogpile had loosened up a little.

“Careful, my friend, don’t let Anders or Velanna hear you,” Zevran said. “We don’t want any magical duels breaking out, do we?”

“Velanna is most certainly not my favoritest mage,” Alistair said grumpily. “She made me get into a bear. And she does her hair like Morrigan’s! I don’t think I trust mage women with buns anymore.”

“A bear?” Wynne said quizzically. “Is that what that smell was?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Alistair mumbled.

“I do,” said Tabris. “C’mon, walk with me, I’ll tell you all about it.”

“Oh, yes, I suppose…there _was_ something I wished to discuss with you.” The old mage gave them a kind smile and went with the Commander went off to give her a tour of the grounds.

“Team dinner later, alright?” Tabris called.

She glanced at Wynne. “So…did you find out any more about your son?”

\--

They somehow managed to keep dinner small. Just the old team. The only ones missing were Sten, who had replied to the invitation with a very brief affirmative and would be arriving later, and…Morrigan. They awkwardly avoided discussing her too much. It made Alistair pull faces and made Tabris look tremendously sad and suddenly decide to finish her drink.

“Well, this is lovely, isn’t it.” Leliana smiled. “Just about all of us, together again. None of us dead or corrupted or possessed. Most unexpectedly delightful, no?”

“I guess it’s more than you can say for Justice,” Alistair said. “He’s dead _and_ possessed.”

Wynne coughed uncomfortably. Tabris hurriedly changed the subject. “Alistair, you wanted to ask Wynne something, didn’t you?”

“Oh, I did!” Alistair grinned and turned to the mage. “Wynne—will you be my maid of honor?”

Wynne laughed. “I’m a bit past my days of being a maid, aren’t I?”

“Who cares? You’re my favoritest mage ever and you used to darn my socks. I want you to do it.”

She smiled. “Of course, Alistair.”

“Feh!” Oghren said. “Why not me, kid? I’m a dwarven warrior. I’m _made_ of honor.”

“Sure, Oghren, but remember that time you told me there weren’t any giant spiders in the pissing spot? And there were?”

Leliana frowned. “Oh, I thought Morrigan did that?”

“She did it, too!” Alistair seethed. “Multiple times! Sometimes, she was the spiders!”

Zevran put a single finger to his bottom lip. “Didn’t I do that once?”

Alistair turned on him. “You _did!”_

“So did Shale, I think,” Tabris said, recalling.

The golem didn’t have a face that could make facial expressions, exactly, but they seemed to grin smugly. “I did.”

“Why were we even friends again?” Alistair said in disgust, sitting back.

“Darkspawn, dear,” Tabris said. “That was why.”

At that point, Oghren challenged Wynne to a drinking contest. The next half hour found the old Blight team picking sides and cheering. They drank Oghren’s special brew. The winner seemed a foregone conclusion.

And then Oghren swayed, muttered something about rump roast, and collapsed under the table, while Wynne smiled slightly and sat up straighter. She reached out and finished his drink in one swallow. “That settles that, I think,” she said mildly.

The party stared dumbly at Oghren under the table. “I’m not picking that up,” Shale said.

“You know,” said Zevran, “I cannot quite put my finger on why, but I feel that it was somehow _my_ destiny to engage in the drinking contest with the dwarf and effortlessly win, with my elven charm and grace.”

“You _did_ engage in a drinking contest with Oghren,” Leliana said irritably. “You were running around without underclothes after the second glass of wine.”

“I certainly have no memory of this,” Zevran said innocently. “Three cheers for our dear well-preserved mage!”

There were not only three cheers, but several, because everyone was pretty drunk at this point. They clapped her on the back in good humor, laughing, and that was when Tabris said It.

“You’re the best, Mom.”

It came with a friendly clap on the shoulder, but there was no mistaking it. Tabris froze immediately like a halla in an arrow’s path. Everyone froze. Everyone had heard It.

The party turned to stare at Wynne, and then their collective gazes settled on Tabris. A few jaws dropped. Tabris never admitted things. _Never._

Tabris’s normally squinty eyes had gone wide and round. She looked around wildly, searching for escape before the moment of shock passed and people started talking again. About how she had said It.

“You’ll never take me alive,” she said frantically, and jumped out the window.

The silence stretched on. “Aren’t we on the fifth floor?” Wynne said worriedly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tabris, you really need to stop doing that.
> 
> I wanted to include Sten in this but I honestly can't imagine him turning up any earlier than literally right before the ceremony.


	14. The Maid of Honor

“So, Commander,” Sigrun said, twirling one of her pigtails around her finger. “Have you chosen a maid of honor yet?”

Tabris groaned, nearly spilling a bottle of ink. “Sigrun, not you too.”

Sigrun pouted. She had a very good face for pouting. “Aw, so the others already got to you, huh?”

“Not all of them,” Tabris said, looking paranoid around the empty room. “I haven’t heard from Leliana yet. I expect she’ll string me up by my thumbs until I agree to her demands.”

“Really? She seems sweet.”

“You should have seen her during the Blight. That’s a woman who’ll leap onto an ogre and stab out its eyes with a pair of tiny daggers when she runs out of arrows.”

“Sure, but who among us wouldn’t?”

“Point, I guess.” Tabris finished affixing her seal onto the papers, gathered them up, and left the room. Sigrun followed.

“Commander. There you are.” Velanna stood at the other end of the corridor, tapping her foot. Tabris froze, then veered sharply into the adjoining corridor.

But Velanna was tall for an elf, and her legs were much longer than hers. Tabris was being accosted within short order. “Have you given any further thought to my argument? That, obviously, as Dalish keeper, I am uniquely suited to serve as your primary attendant at the ceremony?”

“I think I’ve had enough of Dalish wedding customs,” Tabris muttered. “Alistair still smells like the inside of a bear. I have to sleep in the same bed as him, you know!”

Velanna sniffed. “It’s no fault of mine that you choose to tie yourself to a gullible fool of a shem. Though,” she admitted grudgingly, “I suppose I do appreciate his attempt at understanding our customs.”

“Customs you made up!”

“You encouraged me to make up new stories, did you not? I am only doing as you instructed.”

Tabris’s objection was interrupted with a fourth voice. “Hey, Velanna, I was just—Cousin!” Shianni. Oh, no. Tabris bolted for the door—any door. But it was no good.

“So have you told everyone that you’re making me the maid of honor yet, or what?” Shianni said, throwing an arm around Tabris.

“Elven weddings don’t even _have_ maids of honor!” Tabris threw her papers down in frustration. “Why do you even want to be involved?”

Shianni clasped her hands behind her back and whistled. “Well, we ought to get it right at least once, and I sure as hell am not getting married.”

The floor was shaking. The shaking grew steadily louder, until Shale blocked the only exit in the hallway with their bulk.

“Ah, good, there it is,” the golem said. “Am I to understand that we ‘girls’ are participating in the grand tradition of squabbling? I would like to be included.”

“Of course, Shale,” Tabris said faintly.

The golem made a sound as though clearing their nonexistent throat. “I believe that I should be the maid of honor, for I am the largest and most powerful of the maids. Additionally, I am adorned with power crystals, which are not only beautiful, but also capable of shooting fire at disruptive wedding guests.”

“You know,” Tabris said, “That’s probably the most compelling argument I’ve heard so far.”

“No way!” Sigrun protested. “If we’re going by size, that’s just unfair!”

“If we’re deciding by ability to shoot fire at disruptive wedding guests, I insist I be given a chance,” Velanna said.

“Hm, perhaps we could have a battle royale?” Shale suggested. “The final maid standing shall have the honor.”

“You’re just suggesting that because you know you’ll win,” Shianni protested.

“Yes,” the golem said flatly.

Velanna brandished her staff. “I would beg to differ on the subject of the inevitable winner!”

“Enough!” Tabris declared. “You can all leave me alone! I’ve already decided that I’m not going to have a maid of honor.”

“What’s this?” A voice emanated from the darkness. Leliana emerged from the shadows like a spider from her web with a spine-tingling aura Morrigan would have shed a proud tear over. “No maid of honor?”

“I suppose you’re here to pester me for the position, too,” Tabris growled.

“Not at all,” she said. “I am content to merely arrange things from behind the scenes. But no maid of honor? I can’t possibly allow this. Someone must be chosen as your dearest companion, to stand closest beside you at the ceremony. You simply must choose _someone,_ warden. Have us draw lots if you wish.”

Tabris pushed pass the crowd in the hallway and made a break for her office. “I am not having a maid of honor,” she said, “because I am having a best man instead.” She opened the door and briefly turned to face the women and woman-adjacent golem. “And it’s Oghren.”

She slammed the door with a rattle.


	15. The Best Man

When Oghren had married Felsi, they hadn’t made a big deal of it. A traditional dwarven ceremony, except with more eloping. It hadn’t been much, but it had been theirs. And they’d been happy. At least until the nugget had been born, and he’d try to quit drinking. He’d tried, he really had. But then he couldn’t stop shaking, and he’d felt so sick all the time, until he’d finally dropped the poor kid. Twice. He’d been a bad dwarf and a bad father, but damn if he wasn’t sodding good at killing ‘spawn, so off to kill ‘spawn he went.

And now, it was only thanks to his commander and old war buddy from the Blight that Oghren still had Felsi and the nugget at all. A man had to be grateful for that.

And when she’d asked him to be her best man, well…that was just about more emotions than his drink-soaked brain could handle.

But if he was going to be the best man, he figured he really had to step up to the plate this time. Do his part in the wedding. He’d thought long and hard on it, and finally, given up and gone to ask Leliana.

“Hey, Lels,” he started.

“If it’s a comment about my breasts, a bodily function, or a reference to sodding nughumpers, I don’t want to hear it,” Leliana snapped. “I’m quite busy.”

“Hey, it’s none of that,” Oghren said. “I figure I’d, y’know, help out. Is there, uh, anything you need me to do?”

“Oh.” Leliana blinked, then glanced at some of the papers in her arms. “Well…I need someone to arrange for the open bar, and stock it with the finest drinks. You’d know a lot about that, I suppose. Can you do that without sampling the entire stock?”

“Aye, aye, cap’n,” the warrior said, snapping a salute. “You can count on me.”

“I…certainly hope I can.” Leliana smiled and hurried away.

What did the bride and groom like to drink? The kid liked his Fereldan ale. Feh! That bronto piss was practically water. What the kid needed was some _real_ ale, the good dwarven stuff. Maybe soft-brewed, though. Tabris would need him ready and able to stand at attention at the wedding night. Heh.

Now, Tabris herself—Tabris would drink anything, no matter how corrosive. There’d been a period early in her tenure as commander during which she had become obsessed with besting Oghren in a drinking contest. She felt that she would be able to do it through sheer determination—all four-foot-eleven of her.

These occasions inevitably ended with the insensible commander being hauled up to her room by whosever turn it was on the rotating schedule. Privately, Oghren was astonished and slightly frightened that she managed to keep up at all.

Anyway, these days she mostly drank coffee, vile bitter stuff that Sten kept sending her from Par Vollen. Bloody pointless bean water, in Oghren’s opinion, but then again, he was a dwarf who habitually drank something called Dragon Piss.

But hey, he knew his drinks. He set off to the kitchens. He’d make this really special, he decided. He’d brew them something _custom._

\--

Leliana gazed uncertainly at the bottles before her. Well, she called them bottles. Some of the vessels were bottles, but most were assorted bowls, decorative vases, and…was that the Joining chalice?

“Alright, Oghren,” she said apprehensively. “Show me what you have.”

The dwarf cleared his throat, coughed for a while, then began the grand tour. “This one here,” he said, “Is the finest white wine you’ll ever taste. Simultaneously dry and sweet, crisp and fresh but also sophisticated. It can pair with any meal. Aged as though by magic—because it was aged by magic. ”

Leliana took a cautious sip. Oghren hadn’t been exaggerating. “It’s amazing. Is there lyrium in it?”

“Hah! Just a tad. Ole Wynne helped me with that one. That lady knows her wines. Now this one,” he presented a fishbowl filled with a foaming amber fluid, “is weak ale that tastes like strong ale. Just the perfect blend of hops and spices, but you can drink it all night and not feel much more than a pleasant tingle.”

“Not bad….not bad at all. What’s this one?” She pointed a terracotta pot containing a creamy light brown liquid.

“Hoo, now, this is a special mix. Halla milk, Par Vollen coffee, and Nevarran cream liqueur. Plus a little special something from ole Oghren.”

“I’ll decline to find out what this special something is…but this is truly amazing. You should consider selling these. You’ll have to tell me about the rest of these later, and of course I’ll need more for the event.” She scribbled something on her sheet of paper. “I’m sorry for ever doubting you, Oghren. It was unworthy of me.”

Oghren waved away the concerns with an equanime shrug. “All in a day’s work for Oghren.”

“Since you’ve proved yourself,” the Orlesian said, “Perhaps you could do another thing for me. I was hoping I could procure a flight of doves to release as the happy couple exchanges vows. But they’re so hard to find so far from Orlais…But perhaps you could do it. I have everyone else busy elsewhere…”

“Say no more, Lels, say no more. I’ll be right on it.” Oghren departed, whistling cheerfully. Leliana smiled to herself. It was so good to be proven wrong sometimes.

\--

 

Oghren returned to her a few days later, red faced and bleary eyed. He was hauling crate after him.

Oh no, Leliana thought.

“Hey, Lels,” the dwarf slurred. “Couldn’t find any doves. Thought I’d have a drink while I searched…then I had another drink…then—ah, well, you don’t need to hear all that. Anyway, I got nugs instead. They’ll do, right?”

He smacked the top of the crate, causing the door to fall open and releasing the herd of terrified nugs into the hall. One dashed to Leliana and hid under her skirt, nuzzling her ankle.

She sighed. So much for being proven wrong. “You’ve done enough, Oghren,” she said. “I think I’ve had enough help for now.”

At least the nugs were cute. She idly considered what she’d name them all.

Oghren turned and left with a _bah!,_ narrowly avoiding stepping on the little parcels of useless meat. Just silly old drunk Oghren, messing up again. But hey. Leliana thought they were cute. And if Shale wouldn’t have to tolerate the devil-creatures at the celebration—so much the better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How did Oghren distill all those drinks so quickly? Well, you see, the reason is fuck you. Fuck you is how. (Or maybe lyrium or something.)


	16. The Wedding Gift

The gift had appeared at the edge of the Dragonbone Wastes. It was only by pure chance that a Warden patrol was in the area at all. The young woman leading the patrol was suddenly seized by an intense compulsion to sidetrack to the old site of the conclusion of the darkspawn civil war. When her patrol questioned her, she could only provide a vague, “Eh…we just have to, okay?”

The gift was wrapped with silvery paper and topped with a lavender bow. When the patrol leader picked it up, she had the thought to open it. The thought was immediately swept away, and she became convinced that she absolutely could not open the gift, under any circumstances, ever.

“We have to take this back to the Keep,” she said.

“Eh?” said her second-in-command. “We’re not due back for several days.”

“Yes, but,” the patrol leader explained, “We have to.”

The rest of the patrol looked at each other and shrugged. If the patrol leader said they had to go back to warm beds and hot food several days early, they weren’t going to complain.

They did complain later, when the harsh pace and highly unusual inattentiveness lead them to be ambushed by darkspawn. No one was seriously hurt—darkspawn weren’t much of a threat these days, and they _were_ Wardens. But the few minutes of distraction were enough to break the enchantment’s hold. The young patrol leader, wiping the vile blood off her blades, looked around quizzically.

“We’re not supposed to be here until next week,” she said, puzzled.

Her soldiers tried to explain to her about the gift, which she didn’t seem to recognize or remember. To a chorus of groans, she redirected them back along the road to their normal patrol.

The gift sat there in the grass, completely untouched by grime or darkspawn blood.

Inexplicably, some time later, it was seized by a squadron of determined squirrels and brought to the top of a hill, and left there.

Shortly after that, a hawk swooped down and snatched the gift in its claws with a piercing cry that echoed through the mountains. It made it nearly all the way to the keep, until an eagle met it in mid-air and decided to pick a fight. The gift was dropped, and fell nearly a hundred feet before landing in a convenient patch of soft grass.

Hours later, a pair of frightened halla emerged from the woods. Working together, they got the gift balanced on one of their horns. The laden halla then took off at a gallop, careening the rest of the night through the fields and tall grasses, until it approached the keep near dawn—upon which it stumbled, tired from the hours of running. The gift shook loose from the halla’s horns and landed just outside the keep gate. The beast, startled, took off, eager to avoid humans.

Not long after, Barkspawn padded cautiously out to the gate. He sniffed the gift all over, wuffling curiously. Eventually, he picked it up by the bow, and trotted back to his mistress’ bedchamber.

He leapt up on the bed, disturbing the sleeping couple within it. Being Fereldans, however, they hardly noticed. It took Barkspawn a fair amount of work to finally rouse Tabris from her tired and irritated slumber.

“Fine, fine,” she mumbled. “What is it, boy?”

Then she saw the gift. Barkspawn wagged his tail. Tabris took it cautiously. “Alistair,” she said. “Barkspawn brought us a present.”

Alistair made a sort of _mwwumph_ sound. “It’s your turn to clean up.”

“No, like, an actual present. It’s wrapped and got a bow on it and everything.”

“Wait—seriously?” Alistair sat up and boggled. “Well, go on, open it!”

Tabris unwrapped the bow, tore the lovely paper, and lifted the top of the box. Inside lay a crystal orb swirling with mysterious purple mist.

Alistair picked it up first. His eyebrows shot up into his hairline, and then settled down over his deepset eyes angrily. “This is just a recording of Morrigan’s voice calling me an idiot!” He dropped it onto the bedsheets. “It’s some sort of magical item.”

“Morrigan?!” Tabris said. “Let me see!”

“Don’t bother,” he scoffed. “She’ll probably insult you for being so foolish and sentimental.”

She snatched up orb. For quite a long time, she gripped it, and seemed to be staring into space as though hearing something in her mind. Clearly Morrigan’s message for her was quite a bit longer. After a while, her lower lip quivered slightly, her eyes filling with tears.

“What did she say?”

Tabris threw herself into his arms and sobbed messily.

Alistair patted her back and held her, sighing. At least the witch cared quite a bit about one of them. Maybe even both. After all, she had at least congratulated him on becoming a married idiot.


	17. The Shopping Trip

It was just the original warden team tonight, drinking and reminiscing. Or, well, Oghren reminiscing, and everyone else complaining that reminiscing over events from less than half a year ago was stupid. Except Justice. Justice didn’t really understand reminiscing in the first place.

“We should,” Anders slurred, “we should have a team name.”

“A team name?” Justice queried uncertainly.

“A team name!” Anders said excitedly. “I heard, I heard that sexy elf, the Antivan, refer to the Commander’s old friends as the Blight Stoppin’ Crew. I like that! I want one like that.”

“We didn’t stop a Blight,” Velanna said irritably.

“But we did stop a darkspawn civil war! And save a city! And—and lots of other things!” Anders thought intently. “How—how about, Darkspawn Civil War Stoppin’ Crew?”

“It’s a bit on the nose,” Nate said.

“Yea,” Sigrun agreed. “Doesn’t really roll of the tongue.”

“Eh…” Anders thought yet harder. “Darkspawn Civil War Ceasin’ Compatriots?”

“Stone, that’s even worse.”

“ _Spawnbusters,”_ Oghren declared suddenly, banging on the table. “You—you know, like the old dwarven play? Who you gonna call? Spawnbusters!”

“Oh, I remember Spawnbusters,” Sigrun said, realization dawning on her. “That’s great. I vote for Spawnbusters.”

“It’s a bit regional, isn’t it?” Velanna said.

Anders rolled his eyes. “As though you wouldn’t have come up with something like—like, The Elven Company and Associates.”

“I would not have,” Velanna said stiffly. “Although it’s still better than Darkspawn Civil War Ceasin’ Compatriots.”

Nathaniel brightened suddenly. “Oh, what about—um—the Original Vigil?”

Oghren slowly shook his head. “Nate, remember how we talked about gettin’ yerself an imagination? I take it back. Go back to being boring.”

“I don’t think Nathaniel is boring,” Justice put in.

“His suggestion was…acceptable,” Velanna said slowly.

“It _rhymes,”_ Oghren said furiously. “I won’t be called anything that rhymes.”

“It only sort of rhymes,” Sigrun said.

“Feh!”

It was usually at this point that Tabris would put an end to all argument by either telling them to stop fighting, picking something, or coming up with something better, but the Commander was currently absent. She’d been dragged away by the golem to be fitted for something, protesting weakly, several hours ago. Her remaining companions had taken this opportunity to gossip about her relentlessly behind her back.

Sigrun was also taking the opportunity to pester Velanna about her new ladyfriend without Tabris there to glare at her and tell her to mind her own business.

“So Velanna,” the dwarf said, waggling her eyebrows. “You. Shianni. In the tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G.”

Oghren chortled. “Not to mention F-U-”

Velanna smacked him over the head with her staff, too mortified to even use magic.

“Cease this at once,” she said in consternation. “This is my own private matter.” She blushed furiously and downed an entire glass of fine Dalish wine in one swallow.

“Though Shianni is beautiful and kind and determined, I could never have feelings for one outside the clan,” she said, after another glass.

“And she’s…she’s got nice shoulders,” she added, after the third. “And she does this thing with her tongue, that, that I like very much. Yes.”

“I love that woman,” she slurred, after the fourth. “I’m gonna marry her. Gonna marry the _shit_ out of her. I’m gonna—catch that damn bouquet at the wedding, I will. Oghren, you tell that red-headed Orlesian devil-woman to make _sure_ there’s a bouquet, so I can catch it, alright? Alright. Listen. We’re gonna, we’re gonna get married, and with our forces combined, we’ll overthrow the shem power base together and establish a new elven homeland for Dalish and city elves alike. Listen. Justice, _listen._ ”

“I’m listening,” Justice said honestly. “Tell me more about establishing the new elven homeland.”

But at that point Velanna’s head thunked on the table, prompting Anders to do a quick Herioc Aura to restore her.

“Looks like we might be celebrating another wedding soon,” Nathaniel said, dumbfounded.

“To another wedding!” Oghren roared, raising his tankard. They all drank.

“And to the Commander’s wedding!” They all drank again.

“At the rate Tabris is going, she’ll be related to everyone in Ferelden soon,” Sigrun commented.

“I have no doubt that everyone in Ferelden will _claim_ to be related to her,” Nathaniel said dryly.

“And why not?” Oghren said jovially. “Who doesn’t love the Commander? Always listening to everyone’s problems, stabbing ‘spawn in the face. And—and she’s tiny, so’s its even more impressive when she’s yelling, right? And she’s always, buying presents for everyone. What a gal.”

It was the mention of _presents_ that set everyone off.

Sigrun looked at Nate. Nate looked at Anders. Anders looked at Velanna, who was back to a non-incapacitated level of drunkenness. Velanna looked at Justice, who looked back at Oghren.

They sat in dumbfounded silence for many long moments.

It was Nathaniel, voice dripping with horror, who finally spoke. “So… _none_ of us got them a wedding gift yet?”

The stunned, horrified silence extended for quite a while longer.

“Shit. _Shit.”_ Anders leapt up and dashed to the window. “Okay, it’s nearly dawn. If we leave now, we can get to Amaranthine by the time the shops open. Alright? Alright, we can do this!”

The group didn’t look particularly ready to do this.

Anders tried again. “Okay, a round of Creation magic for everyone, and _then_ we can do this!”

\--

They must have been quite a sight. A group of half-dressed wardens somewhere between drunk and hungover—one of which was a possessed corpse, another of which was Oghren—standing around the main square of Amaranthine, blinking uncertainly in the daylight. Mothers hurried their children past them, hissing at them not to look. A few people muttered uncertainly to each other about whether those were the same wardens that had saved them from darkspawn a few months back, but nobody could be sure.

“Alright, team,” Nathaniel, who took over as Team Dad when the Commander was absent, said wearily. “If we want to be back at the Keep before anyone gets suspicious, we have to be quick. We’ll split up and meet back here in exactly one hour. You each have a budget of five gold.”

“Where did you get thirty gold pieces?” Justice queried.

“Well, I _am_ a rogue,” Nathaniel said. “It’s for a good cause. It’s just. Trust me.”

Justice didn’t look convinced. Anders hurriedly seized him by one gauntleted hand and tugged him off to the market. “Hey, you know where we can talk about the ethics of fund-appropriation? The market! Let’s go, Justice.”

“Right!” Oghren said, and took off determinedly in the wrong direction.

Nathaniel looked at Sigrun, with begging eyes. She nodded somberly and took off after Oghren. “Hey, bud! Wrong way! Here, come on, this way.”

And that left Nate with Velanna. He stood there awkwardly and tried to pretend that he didn’t have a crush on her the size of one of those enormous spiders they were always fighting.

“Er, let’s go then,” he said.

\--

Anders and Justice walked through the market. Anders was attempting to look for something nice, but it was difficult, on account of Justice very determinedly keeping his attention with a long, drawn-out argument about—what else—justice.

This happened maybe once a week. Anders didn’t know why he let himself get drawn into it, but somehow he had become the designated Justice Debate Partner. Whenever the spirit got worked up about something, everybody looked at Anders to go and talk to him. He seemed to be the best at it.

“And for the last time, Pounce is a _friend.”_ Anders crossed his arms determinedly. “Now can we stop this so we can figure out a gift?”

The spirit made a dissatisfied noise. “I suppose so. But I hope you will think on what I have said and reconsider when we revisit this topic next week.”

Anders groaned. “Never change, Justice.”

“I am a spirit, I do not change.”

“Right. Well. Do spirits have any idea what a good wedding gift would be? Because in the Circle, the greatest extent of romantic entanglement was a quick poke in a closet when the Templar’s aren’t looking.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “What am I talking about, of course you don’t. You’re from the Fade, what would you know about this sort of thing?” Maybe he should have picked someone else as his shopping partner, he thought moodily.

“Actually,” Justice said hesitantly, “I have already created my gift for them.”

“ _What?”_ said Anders, flabbergasted. “What is it?”

“A hand-crafted great-sword and a pair of matching twin short-swords. They are engraved with roses—which the Commander once told me was a symbol important to her relationship with Alistair—and an inscription on the blades bears a line from a romantic poem. I have also asked Ambassador Cera to inscribe the blades with runes of Camraderie and Protection. I began work on them some months ago, when the wedding was first announced.”

Anders stared at him. “Well—aren’t you just the sweetest, most thoughtful corpse I’ve ever met.” He kicked the ground. “You need to stop making the rest of us look bad.”

Justice looked genuinely sorry. “That was not my intent.”

“I know, Justice, I know.” Anders sighed. “Well, I can’t measure up to that. And nothing I could come up with could match up to what the Commander’s done for me, anyway, so…I’m going to go to the Crown and Lion and I’m going to get drunk. Again.”

“Why?”

“For inspiration.”

“Very well. I will go with you and make sure you do not imbibe overtly.”

“You’re always looking out for me, Justice.”

\--

Nathaniel had spent the past forty-five minutes carefully examining every single item of any use in the market.

“Perhaps a set of dishware,” he said.

“Alright,” said Velanna. “Get a set of dishware.”

“Wait, that’s stupid,” he cursed himself. “They live in the Keep, they already _have_ dishes.”

“Perhaps,” he said a while later, “a nice pair of candlesticks?”

“Candlesticks would be acceptable,” Velanna said.

“You don’t sound very enthused. Never mind about the candlesticks! It’ll have to be something else.”

“Some bedding, maybe?” Nathaniel said.

“No, wait—wine glasses!” Nathaniel considered.

“Some rope,” Nathaniel said determinedly. “Rope is great. Rope is useful. All sorts of uses for a good length of sturdy rope.”

“A tea kettle? A nice tea kettle?” Nathaniel agonized desperately.

“I don’t care,” Velanna said flatly. “Pick something and let’s go.”

“What are you getting them?” he asked.

Velanna indicated the potted plant she had braced against her hip.

“A fern?” he said uncertainly.

“It’s a _ficus,”_ Velanna snapped. “Why did you think I was carrying it around, if not to give as a gift?”

Nate rubbed the back of his head. “I—uh—sort of thought it was an elf thing.”

Velanna made a noise of disgust.

“Where did you even get a plant? I didn’t see any plants on sale. Oh, maybe I should get them a plant. But it can’t be the same kind of plant you got. Maybe I shouldn’t get them a plant. Oh, dear.”

“It wasn’t on sale anywhere,” Velanna said. “While you were agonizing over the toaster, I went outside the city gates, found a ficus, and put it in the pot.”

“Where did you get the pot?”

“Someone’s window.”

Nathaniel slumped against a wall. “I can’t decide. There’s so many things a married couple need. What’s both thoughtful and useful?” He tore at his hair.

Velanna stared down at him, and took pity. She shoved the plant at him. “Here,” she said brusquely. “Take the ficus. You give it to them. I’ll figure out something else, seeing as I am not an incompetent fool.”

“Oh…well….Thank you. Thank you, Velanna.”

“In return, you must cease all this lovelorn gazing at me when you think I’m not watching,” she said. “It is making me pity you, which stirs all sorts of unwanted tender feelings in my heart. You will stop.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Nathaniel said wearily.

\--

Oghren took a swig from one of his numerous flasks. Sigrun frowned, and swatted at it. “Hey! What are you drinking for? We’re on a mission, here!”

“Best way to avoid a hangover,” Oghren said. “Just stay drunk. I fought the Archdemon drunk, I can go shopping drunk.”

“Huh. Really?” Sigrun bit the inside of her cheek. “In that case, let me have some.” Oghren passed the flask to her.

After she was done coughing, they went along through the market.

Sigrun ended up buying just about every useless thing she laid eyes on. She bought a carved wooden nug, a hat with pom-poms on top, a pair of high-heeled boots that set fire to the ground as you walked, a set of tiny swords (“Tiny swords, Oghren! _Tiny swords!!!”),_ a statue of a golem that was enchanted to tell jokes (“You don’t think Shale will be offended, do you?”), a used rug (“It’s Nevarran!”), and some Deluxe Soap-on-a-Rope that came with soap on _both_ ends of the rope.

“This is garbage,” Oghren said in astonishment.

“It’s _thoughtful_ garbage,” Sigrun corrected. “I’ll put it in all in a big box and put a lot of work into the card.”

“Whatever skewers your kabob, I guess.” Oghren took another long draught from his flask.

“Well, that’s all my money,” Sigrun said brightly, proudly examining her pile of junk. “Now you have to find something.”

“I’ll just get ‘em a bottle of something corrosive.”

“Oghren, nooooo! Be creative! Come on!”

“Hmm. Maybe I’ll be more creative once I’ve drunk more.”

Sigrun snatched the flask from him. “You’ve had enough!” She drank the rest of it, in one of her greatest acts of bravery, and threw it over her shoulder.

Oghren shrugged. “I have three more on me, y’know.”

“Argh, just find a gift!”

They lurched unsteadily through the market, and eventually found themselves before a storefront in a dark little alley. The sign on the door, written in dark pink, read “Madame Charlotte’s Exquisite Orlesian Bedroom Silks”.

“Huh.” Sigrun tilted her head. “What in the Stone is that mannequin wearing?”

“Not much. Ooh, let’s go in.”

They went in.

They surveyed the fine selection of exquisite Orlesian bedroom silks.

“Ehhhh,” Oghren said. “This ain’t really their thing. But I might pick somethin’ out for Fels. We oughtta get started on the second kid, eh?”

“Gross,” Sigrun said, more of as a matter of habit than any actual disgust by this point in her relationship with Oghren. “Does Tabris even know what lingerie _is?”_

Oghren thought. He’d known Tabris for a few years now. His kid was named after her. She was the best friend he’d ever had and he’d fight another ten Archdemons for her. “Nah. Definitely not.”

“Then—then this is _perfect!”_ Sigrun grinned, her rather red face reddening further. “We gotta get one of these. We have to—we have to get the _best_ one. What’s the most expensive thing we can get here for five gold?”

Madame Charlotte, a large and terrifying Vashoth woman in a lovely pink dress, indicated such an item. Sigrun and Oghren beheld it.

“That’s…a lot of straps,” Sigrun said slowly, awed.

“Stone,” Oghren said. “That’s the most beautiful and terrifying thing I’ve ever seen.”

“It’s like staring into eternity. How’re you supposed to get it on?”

Oghren guffawed. “Ole Oghren can teach you how to _get it on.”_

“Gross! You’re _married!”_

“If ser would like a demonstration,” Madame Charlotte said helpfully.

“NO! No, that’s quite alright!” Sigrun squeaked. “We’ll take it!”

\--

They met back up in the town square just around mid-morning.

“Did everyone find something?” Nathaniel asked, holding his ficus with both hands.

Sigrun gave a cheerful thumbs up, hefting a large sack. Oghren grunted.

Justice, who was carrying Anders over his shoulder, spoke up. “We encountered some troubles.”

“What was it?” Nathaniel said worriedly. “Is he alright? Was it Templars?”

“It was vice,” Justice said flatly.

“Heyyy,” Anders said weakly. “Put me down, I have my gift, I do!”

Justice set him down carefully. After Anders was done wobbling, he produced a sheaf of papers from somewhere on his person. “I’ve got this!”

“And what is that?” Velanna said.

Justice heaved a sigh. “We went to a tavern, and Anders decided to write a book.”

“It’s called ‘Ser Fucko, the Templar Who Ruined Everything All the Time, and then Died’,” Anders said proudly. “A first edition copy! The commander and her love will be thrilled to have it. Penned it myself!”

Nathaniel glanced at the papers and leafed through a few pages. “Could use some editing,” he commented. “You have a few run-ons.”

“Why, ser!” Anders said, scandalized. “How—how _dare_ you criticize the finest literary mind of the Age! Why—why I ought to…” He fell over. Justice picked him up again.

“There are actually quite a few interesting ideas in it,” the spirit said. “Subversive notions of revolution. I encouraged him to continue.”

“Well, if everyone has something,” Nathaniel said, “Let’s head back to the Keep before we’re missed. Come to think of it, the entire stock of Ferelden’s Senior Wardens probably shouldn’t have mysteriously gone missing overnight…”


	18. The Fitting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tabris deals with some old trauma.

No amount of Leliana’s bullying had managed to get Tabris anywhere near a dress, but eventually, a contingent of her best henpeckers, Shianni, Barkspawn’s begging face, and finally, Shale simply lifting her in the air and informing her that she would look Pretty on her wedding day Or Else, managed to get her to get fitted for a nice suit.

One of the new recruits had been a fairly renown elven seamstress until an incident with a disrespectful customer, her largest needle, and a lifetime of pent up rage had caused her to flee to the wardens, which Tabris had discovered shortly into the measuring process.

“I suppose you could say you were an inspiration, Commander,” the elderly woman said dryly.

It was a very nice suit. Blue and grey, with silver buttons and epaulets. The coattails were Nevarran in style, the high stiff collar Kirkwallan. The woven boots were all Dalish, though, as were the delicately woven silver chains darting through her hair—Velanna had the decency to provide some actual elven wedding customs. Alistair was getting something similar, with a more obviously Fereldan bent to it. Or so she heard. Of course the bride couldn’t see the groom in costume before the wedding.

Surveying herself in the mirror as the seamstress darted out for a moment, Tabris had to admit she looked…nice. Powerful. Like a national military commander attending a formal event. Certainly she looked better than she had on her last wedding day, in a haphazardly home-sewn white blouse thrown over an old skirt. She couldn’t wear skirts anymore. The sensation of loose flowing fabric around her legs set her teeth on edge.

She’d worn her mother’s boots then. They’d been enchanted to prevent an enemy noticing you. Presumably, they were meant to help one avoid the wrath of shems while buying food at the market. They’d been used instead to sneak out of the shadows and stab them in the kidneys.

She’d given them to Wynne to wear. It was important for a mage to avoid notice, given the flimsy little robes they wore, and doubly important for the group’s healer to remain standing. Adaia hadn’t been wearing those boots when shemlen had killed her. Tabris wondered sometimes if the boots would have helped.

She’d occasionally thought to ask Wynne for them back—she only meant to lend them, after all—but what was the point? Tabris would never wear them again. They were old boots, made of low-quality leather. She was the commander now. She wore nice new boots, now, with better enchantments.

Tabris licked a finger and curled a loose strand of hair around it. It had gotten so long. And it had always been thick—totally impossible to do without help. Alistair did it for her now, the way her mother used to. When she’d been killed, Tabris had chopped off all her lovely thick hair. Her father had looked so disappointed. She’d always been so proud of her hair. Even with Shianni’s attempts at salvaging it, that was how it had been at her last wedding—choppy and unbrushed around her surly face, her grim expression only exacerbated by half-healed eye tattoos.

“What’s the matter?” Shianni said jokingly behind her. “You never stare at anything so long without scowling.”

Tabris fixed a scowl on her face. “This damn suit is too Orlesian.”

“Don’t lie. You were looking all sad and distant. What’s wrong?”

“So, how’s it going with Velanna?” Tabris asked, initiating distraction tactics.

“What—? Oh, pretty well, I guess .” Shianni smiled slightly and blushed. “She grows me flowers sometimes, it’s sweet.”

Tabris grasped at the straw. “Only sweet? You have to tell me more.”

“Oh, maybe over some wine— _hey,_ don’t think I can’t tell what you’re doing. It didn’t work when we were five and it won’t work now. Seriously, what’s wrong?”

So much for that strategy. How was she even supposed to answer that question? Her response stuck uncomfortably in her throat. She threw herself into the wooden chair by the window, folding her arms and glaring into the corner.

Shianni sighed, and set herself with her arms crossed in front of her cousin. “I haven’t seen you since you left to command here. Talk to me. What’s going on?”

Tabris buried her face in her hands. Shianni’s face crumpled into true concern. She knelt by her side. “Cousin.”

“What’s wrong? _What’s wrong?”_ Tabris burst out. “Shianni, what’s _right?_ Look at me! I’m covered in silk and velvet, there’s silver in my hair, I’m wearing good, expensive boots! I’m a national hero and a military leader. Half of Ferelden is going to show up to this damn wedding, the way Leliana’s been talking it up. Argh, it’s not right!” She rose abruptly and viciously punched the wall. It hurt. If it weren’t for the thick, expensive leather gloves she’d been outfitted with, she’d probably have to go and get Anders.

“This is a change,” Shianni said, quirking an eyebrow. “A year ago, you were hooting your Hero of Ferelden title at every opportunity, reminding anyone who looked at you funny about the archdemon you graciously slew for them, and buying every fine thing in sight.”

“That was a year ago,” Tabris said. “Before I became Warden-Commander. Now I have a keep and an army, any member of which would readily die for me. They _do_ readily die for me!”

“So you don’t like being Warden-Commander. Is that it?”

“But I _do_ like it,” Tabris said bitterly. “It’s like I was born for this. Barking orders and making plans and writing out paperwork. Paperwork, Shianni! I couldn’t even write my own name until a few months ago when Seneschal Varel taught me. Sweet Andraste, the only elven thing about me anymore is the ears. I’m looking at myself in these damned expensive boots and this well-fitted suit and it looks _right_ on me. And it shouldn’t! I don’t belong here. I should be in Denerim, helping our people. I should be worrying about the elves, not the wardens. While you’re being Bann, doing something useful for the alienage, I’m—I’m here, getting married to a human, and wearing expensive boots.” She looked down at the offending footwear. “I shouldn’t have made you Bann. I should have done it myself. I should never have gotten drawn into this commander nonsense. I shouldn’t have let myself get good at it.”

“I like being Bann,” Shianni said gently. “And you like being Warden-Commander. I don’t see the problem.”

“I shouldn’t,” Tabris said resolutely. “I shouldn’t like it. I should have left half a year ago when the civil war was resolved. And I definitely shouldn’t be getting married. Especially not to a human. Argh, and I shouldn’t _not_ want to marry him! Andraste’s tits, have you any idea how much I love that man? More than I ever thought plausible or realistic, and look at me now, suffering through all this for his sake. Because he wanted to marry me.”

Shianni looked guiltily away. “Now I feel bad about pressuring you. I should have—I should have listened, I should have told Leliana to lay off. ”

“It’s not your fault,” Tabris muttered. “Maker, you of all people shouldn’t feel guilty over this.”

Shianni quirked an eyebrow. “How do you mean, me of all people?”

Tabris clamped her jaw shut. She regretted bringing it up. But now that Shianni was on the trail, it was no use.

It dawned on her. “This is about last time, isn’t it?”

“Of course it’s about last time!” Tabris clutched at her head. “How could it not be about last time? Maker, I can’t even stand to wear a dress anymore. I’m walking down that aisle with a minimum of five different weapons hidden on my person.” She slid down the stone wall until she was sitting, staring at the ceiling.

Shianni sat by her. “I admit your first wedding wasn’t a very good time for anyone involved,” she said softly, “And I won’t pretend what happened then doesn’t still bother me. Sometimes, very much. But don’t you think that’s a little extreme?”

“Of course it’s extreme,” Tabris muttered. “It’s downright ridiculous. It’s absurd. It’s bloody _stupid._ It’s why I’ve been stomping around being grumpy for weeks instead of admitting it. Because it’s _ridiculous.”_

“It’s not ridiculous,” Shianni said firmly. “You should have talked to me about it, cousin. I can’t believe you never said anything.”

“How could I say anything to you? You’re the one who actually suffered. Nelaros, Nola, the servants…Nothing even _happened_ to me.”

Shianni silently reached out and loosened the fist her cousin’s hand had curled into, twining their fingers together.

“I’d never killed anyone before that, you know,” Tabris said eventually, much more quietly. “I was surprised I was so good at it. I didn’t even realize how many people I’d killed until afterwards. They deserved it. And I’d love to do it again. I’d love to skewer and skin every miserable shem that ever did us wrong. Don’t get me wrong. But I was so angry, Shianni. I must have been scared, too, but I couldn’t even tell from how angry I was. I could barely speak. I tried to stab the guards, I tried to stab Duncan. You weren’t there for that. That whole year during the Blight, I was furious, almost all the time. I was never scared or unsure or anything, because there wasn’t any room. It made me damn good at killing darkspawn—at killing _everything.”_

She hadn’t looked away from the ceiling. “Maybe it twisted me up. Maybe you can’t be so angry for so long and not ruin yourself. I was always simmering, before then, at how we were treated, at how we had to live, but after the wedding it was like the floodgates opened. And I had an endless stream of monsters to take it out on. And if it weren’t for people like Wynne and Oghren and Alistair and the other wardens…I’d still be that angry. And maybe I’d be no good to anyone.”

She set her jaw. “And thinking about a wedding—even now—it’s like I’m back there again, on the precipice, about to lose myself to avoid losing anyone else. It’s stupid. It’s so stupid. It’s like this niggling thought at the back of my head that’s convinced something will _happen_. Maybe not to you, maybe not to Alistair, but to somebody. And I have so many more people to care about now. So many people to watch out for. It makes me shake and sweat and want to vomit just to think about it.”

“Oh, cousin,” Shianni sighed. She reached out and crushed the smaller woman in an embrace. “You should have _said._ I could have helped. You think I don’t shake and sweat when I remember things too sharply? You think I don’t want to vomit when anyone touches me when I don’t expect it? You think I’d call you ridiculous?”

“Maybe not out loud.”

Shianni sighed. “All this time you’ve been carrying that around, and I had no idea. You just seemed so invincible.”

Tabris laughed weakly. “That’s just it, isn’t it? I’m always so invincible. Now, I’m the bleeding Commander of the Grey, Arlessa of Amaranthine, the Hero of friggin’ Ferelden. Imagine what they’d say if anyone found out the slayer of the fifth archdemon was too scared to get married?”

“Probably something about cold feet.”

“Hah…probably.”

They embraced in silence for a while. The seamstress, if she was coming back, had likely thought better than to interrupt.

“So what now?” Tabris said. “What am I supposed to do?”

“You can’t really do anything,” Shianni admitted. “But you can still call it all off. They’ll understand, you know. Alistair would understand.”

“He would, wouldn’t he?” Tabris blew a strand of hair out of her face. “But nah. I think…It was good to say it out loud, at least. I’ll get married, if it’s the last damn thing I’ll do.”

“Well, good. And it’ll be the best wedding anybody has ever had.”

“It sure will be.” Tabris paused. “But I’m going in with three daggers per boot.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's my fanfiction and I'll write self-indulgent introspection about my oc if I want. Neener neener.


	19. The Fatherly Concern

They sat Alistair down in the chair.

He laughed nervously. “Uh, is this an interrogation?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” Cyrion Tabris assured him.

“Merely some fatherly concern,” Seneschal Varel continued

Alistair paused, looking between the two men.

“Er, but neither of you are my father,” he said. “Unless, you’re planning on getting married and adopting me? In which case, congratulations.”

“No sass, now,” Cyrion said sternly. “This is serious. You’ll be my son in a few days, anyway, so we might as well get started early.”

“Yes, seeing as your father is an absent king, and also dead, we have volunteered to fulfill the role in such a critical time.”

“Well, isn’t that sweet,” said Alistair.

“It’s only proper,” said Varel.

“This isn’t going to be about sex, is it?” Alistair said. “Because I know how to do it. Tabris and I have been living in sin.”

“Well, you certainly won’t be getting her pregnant,” Cyrion said dryly. “So not to worry. Though I hope eventually you two will adopt, and give me some grandkids.”

“Don’t encourage them,” Varel said. “Our esteemed Commander has already attempted to adopt every orphan child, stray animal, and fresh-faced warden-recruit she’s laid eyes on.”

“Actually,” Alistair put in, “I think most of those orphan children were just briefly unattended children. Probably a good thing she didn’t manage to get them, actually.”

“Probably,” Cyrion agreed, “But if you don’t pick some out soon, I’ll just start sending over whatever alienage orphans I’d most like as grandkids.”

“That’s fair.”

“We merely wanted to offer our sincere fatherly congratulations,” said Cyrion. “We can do a manly-bonding sort of fishing trip, if you like.”

“Maybe after the wedding,” Alistair said. “I think after my last adventure, Leliana would skin me if I left the keep again.”

“That’s fair.”

“What we really wanted to talk to you about today,” Seneschal Varel said, “are the duties of a husband.”

“I thought this wasn’t about sex,” Alistair protested.

“Not those duties,” the seneschal sighed.

“Are we talking footrubs? I do good footrubs.”

“More like, honoring and protecting, supporting constantly. That sort of thing.”

“Well we did fight in a war together,” Alistair said, twiddling his thumbs. “We spend a lot of time honoring each other over that, mostly in the form of exaggerated stories of heroism. “

“I suppose that counts,” Varel said, making a note in his clipboard.

“And of course we support each other. Sometimes, I’ll bash the darkspawn in the face with my shield while she sneaks around and stabs it in the back.”

Varel nodded. “Right…well, not exactly what I meant, but good, good.”

“As far as protecting, I’m sure she’d break my arm if I ever suggested that I’m the one who protects her,” he laughed. “I mean, she once had freaky dark ritual sex to ensure I didn’t have to run off and boldly sacrifice myself to the archdemon. Which I absolutely would have. I’m bigger than her, you know, I can run faster.”

“What?” Varel said, dropping his clipboard.

 _“What?”_ Cyrion said, mouth falling open.

“What?” Alistair paused. “Ah…” He swore. “ Er, sorry.” He grimaced awkwardly. “Can we just, um, forget I mentioned that?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This Tabris is trans, Kieran is hers. She didn't have to ask Alistair to do anything but she did have to awkwardly sidle into his room later like, "Soooo....HILARIOUS story..."


	20. The Motherly Advice

“You look nice, dear,” Wynne said.

“Thanks,” said Tabris, “but given that when we were spending a lot of time together, I was mostly wearing smelly leather and had twigs in my hair all the time, I can’t help but feel underwhelmed.”

Wynne smirked. “You smell better now, too.”

“Trust me, it took _quite a while_ to fully rid the sheets of bear-stink,” Tabris said tartly.

“Truly, I sometimes despair of that boy,” Wynne sighed.

“I don’t,” Tabris said adamantly. “Anyway, it was cute. He’s trying.”

Wynne chuckled.

“What?” Tabris complained.

“It’s just...you’re so in love. It’s quite adorable.”

Tabris colored. A year ago, she would have declared something along the lines of, “I am not! I don’t love anyone or anything! Leave me alone! Oh, look, there are darkspawn over there! Stab, stab, stab!”

Now, though, she just smiled and looked away. “Guess I am.”

“Do you recall, that I disapproved at first?” Wynne said. “Truthfully, I was worried for you. For both of you. You’re both very young, and there was so much that could have gone wrong, well…I’m glad I was proven wrong. Look at you now.”

Tabris plucked at a stray thread at her sleeve. “It’s alright. I suppose.”

“Why, it’s nearly perfect,” said Wynne. “You know the old rhyme? Something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue.”

“No?” Tabris said uncertainly. “Must be a human thing.”

“Maybe. Well, it’s already a new suit, and it’s blue, but it’s still missing a few things. Such as these, perhaps.” Wynne reached into her massive old lady purse and withdrew a package wrapped in muslin, hanging it to Tabris. The elf took it, heart thumping. She suspected she already knew what the package was.

“My mother’s boots,” she said quietly. “I thought you’d forgotten about them, actually.”

“Oh, no, dear, you’ve given me quite a few gifts, I would hate to accidentally take one that was not due to me. Thank you for the use of them, my girl. The enchantment served me well on our travels. Now you have them back.”

Tabris’s throat felt tight. The old leather felt so comforting and familiar under her hands. She hadn’t expected to feel so strongly about them. “Thank you,” she said thickly.

“And that’s not it, dear. You still need something borrowed. Feel free to wear something else, of course, but…well, this will do.”  
  
It was a simple silver ring, on a simple silver chain. Tabris took it, watching it gleam dully in the light.

“It belonged to Rhys’s father,” Wynne explained quietly. Tabris glanced up. Wynne had never spoken about this, not at length.

“He was a Templar,” Wynne said. “He wanted us to run, you know. Him and me and our son. Can you imagine? A Templar encouraging a mage to become an apostate.” She smiled…fondly, but perhaps rather sadly, too. “I didn’t, of course. And that was that. I gave him up, I gave my son up, and only recently have I so much as spoken to him. I wonder, sometimes, what it would have been like, had it been different…” Her gaze briefly shifted to out the window, where fluffy white clouds floated placidly by. She smiled, and looked back. “Oh, don’t mind me. Just a silly old lady caught up in memories.”

“You aren’t silly,” Tabris said, sincere. “ _Or_ old.”

“You’re kind, dear.” She chuckled. “I want to lend this to you, in the hope and joy that you have what I never could. And Alistair was nearly a Templar, no less. Not to mention, the silver will look nice with the rest of that ensemble.”

“Yeah,” Tabris said. “Yeah, it will.”

Wynne’s eyes flashed mischievously. “So, if I’m Mom, when do I get grandkids?”

“Andraste’s vicious knickerweasels.” Tabris pinched the bridge of her nose, coloring. It took a good deal of restraint not to blurt out that she technically already had one.

“Only teasing, dear. Now go on, try it on, let’s see how it looks with the rest of the suit.”

Tabris tried to clasp the chain around her neck, but her shaky hands couldn’t quite manage it. Wynne helped, and steered her towards a mirror.

“It’s nice,” the mage said. “Simple, understated.”

“Y-yeah,” said Tabris. She was thinking, suddenly, how different this was from the last time. Last time, it had just been her cousins and father and a patchy old skirt and beaten old choker. And her real mother had been…

“You know, you’re allowed to hug me if you want,” Wynne said gently.

Tabris hugged her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, this is it guys. Everything I've written so far is posted. From here on out the author must be Encouraged. There will probably be at least 7 more chapters, probably more.


	21. The Cake

The cake was, in a word, magnificent. No, it was more than magnificent. It was not only a work of art—it went beyond art. It was a cake worthy of the Maker on his Golden Throne himself—not that Chef Maximilien Floreux Beaugendre of Val Royeux would ever dare blaspheme!

Not in public, anyway. Not unless he’d had a few drinks first.

The cake was seven layers, each layer a different flavor. And the icing, the frosting, the _decorations!_ There were seventeen different types of icing covering the resplendent pastry, each a more complicated and delicate flavor than the last. His sugared roses and plums and oranges adorned the magnificent thing at just the most tasteful locations.

And the cake topper—simply his crowning achievement! A bride and groom of lifelike beauty, made entirely of sugar! How could any mortal man achieve such beauty without the hand of the Maker Himself?

(Well, perhaps an apostate mage under the protection of the Nightingale could. But nobody needed to know that little detail.)

Chef Beaugendre nearly had tears in his eyes from the thought that this cake was to be cut apart and eaten. This was not a cake meant for bellies. This was a cake meant for a gallery.

“Excuse me,” an extremely large, looming voice from behind him. The chef’s heart nearly stopped. Slowly, he turned.

A giant stood in his kitchen. He was a hundred stone of pure muscle covered in a vast expanse of dark grey skin. His eyes were an arresting violet, his hair stark white and cornrowed. The craggy planes of his terrible face did not look pleased.

“How dare you intrude in my kitchen!” was what Chef Beaugendre meant to say. What he actually said was, “Y-y-yes?”

The terrible giant pointed one massive finger at the cake. “Could I have a slice?”

What Chef Beaugendre meant to say was, “Of course not! It is for the wedding tomorrow, and it is a work of art! You absolutely may not!”

“Y-y-y-yes!” was what he actually said, in a kind of strangled, horrified moan.

“Thank you,” said the giant. And he—the horror! The abject heresy!—picked up a knife, and _cut into the cake._

Chef Beaugendre was not a man of faint heart or coward spirit. He had stared monsters in the face and had not quailed. For good food, he would have faced the Maker and walked backwards into the Void.

But at this travesty, Chef Beaugendre fainted dead away.

Sten did not react. He tried some of the cake. “Not bad,” he said.

He would not get to enjoy much of it, however. It would be mere moments of peace and quiet and cake before kadan would appear to harass him with her affection, and only moments after that would appear Nightingale, and call him ‘Softie’, which he was _not,_ and remind him of the incident of the kitten.

Sten sighed. But he could not have possibly missed kadan’s wedding. It was important he be there.

Whatever a wedding was, anyway.


	22. The Night Before

Tabris lay stiff as a log, staring at the ceiling.

“Nervous?” Alistair asked her.

“Me? Nervous?” Tabris scoffed. “I’ve never been nervous in my life!”

“Hmm. You know, I’d _almost_ believe that, considering I recall you snarling at the archdemon and telling it to—what was it?”

Tabris sighed. “To suck my slim elven cock.”

“Right, that’s what it was.”

“Ugh, could you stop bringing it up? I was so young and ridiculous back then.”

“Alrian, it was a year ago.”

“Young and ridiculous!” she insisted.

Alistair laughed. “Well, I’d almost believe it, except for the fact that you seem to be sweating.”

Tabris stuck her tongue out. “It’s a warm night, Alistair, anyone would be sweating in this weather.”

“Right.”

She scowled at the ceiling.

“Alright, fine,” she admitted, rolling over. “I’m a little nervous. I have bad associations with weddings.”

He propped himself up on an elbow. “You know, we can still call it off if you want. We can be secret-married. I bet the look on Leliana’s face will be a sight to see.”

“No, it’s alright,” she sighed. “I’m going to damn well marry you, if it kills me.”

“Don’t be absurd, dear,” Alistair scoffed. “Nothing can kill you. If anything succeeded, Death would be too scared to tell you.”

Tabris rolled her eyes. “You’re probably right.”

“Besides, we have the wedding night to look forward to. And the cake—er, the replacement cake. And the open bar.”

“Right. Yeah.”

Tabris didn’t look particularly less nervous.

“You’re not gonna sleep all night either, huh?”

“Not a chance.”

“Hah. It’s like the night before the Battle of Denerim all over again.”

“No, this is definitely worse. I wasn’t in formalwear that time and nobody expected me to publically state my private feelings for anyone. Except, y’know, ‘die darkspawn scum!’”

“Yeah, that’s fair.”

They lay in silence for a while.

“So,” Alistair said, “You want to just have the wedding night a day early?”

“ _Maker,_ yes.”


	23. The Honor Guard

“Wardens,” Senior Warden Nathaniel Howe said in his Authoritative Voice, which he used when he was being authoritative. It must have been working, because the hundreds of wardens under his command looked very much like they believed in his Authority.

It was the notorious Howe nose. He was sure of it. It gave him an aura of command.

“Wardens,” he repeated, “You’ve faced darkspawn. You’ve seen the horror of broodmothers, the slavering monstrosity of ghouls. You’ve seen the havoc wrought by the Blight corruption.  No other women or men in Thedas have faced the things you have, confronted the things you have. You are Grey Wardens. You have survived the Joining and countless other trials besides. You are the best Thedas has to offer—the stalwart silver shield between all good living folk and the unspeakable horror of the Blight.”

A cry went up among the assembled wardens. Every warden in Ferelden must have been in attendance.

Nathaniel raised a fist, indicating for them to settle down. They did in short order.

“But today,” he continued gravely, “you face your most difficult challenge yet. I warn that many of you will not leave this experience unchanged. Some of you, we may lose entirely.”

Some of the younger wardens looked nervous.

“But on this day,” he said, lifting his chin and setting this jaw, “this day, that our Commander is to be married—this day, we stand! In peace, vigilance!”

“ _In peace, vigilance!”_ the assembled wardens echoed.

Nathaniel clasped his arms behind his back and smiled fondly. After the commander’s cousin—Shianni—had spoken to him, he’d taken steps to ensure that absolutely nothing could possibly go unexpectedly wrong. Or at least nothing significantly more troublesome than a hilarious series of hijinks revolving around lost rings, or somebody eating the cake and everyone scrambling to find a replacement right away.

The door to the keep jerked open a crack. The glaring bride stuck her head out. “Nate. What’s all this racket?”

“Nothing, Commander,” Nathaniel said innocently.

Tabris squinted at him. “I choose to believe you,” she said eventually. She glanced around at the army of wardens.

She gave them a little wave. They all enthusiastically waved back. Someone in the back might have shouted ‘ _we love you, mom!’._ Graciously, Tabris did not allow any satisfaction to show at this, and went back inside to face her wedding.


	24. The Nerves

Alistair fidgeted as Wynne fussed.

“It’s going to be fine,” she said soothingly, for the hundredth time.

“Yes, _but,_ ” he protested, yet again. “But! What if. What if as I’m walking down the aisle, I trip over my own feet and the whole Keep sees?”

“Well, dear, that’s why we practiced it so many times beforehand.”

“Alright, fair point, but! What if! What if, she decides that she can’t go through with it and leaves me sobbing at the altar?”

Zevran poked his head through the doorway. "Then I suppose you'll have to marry a different elf. Perhaps Velanna, or myself."

Wynne shooed him away and shut the door irritably. “Alistair, she loves you, she would never do that. Not after everything you've been through together.”

“Yes,” Alistair said agitatedly, “ _But!_ Supposing she did?”

Wynne sighed. “There’s no use in entertaining possibilities that are almost certainly not going to happen. You may as well imagine situations where Urthemiel spontaneously rises from the grave and returns for revenge.”

Alistair paled. “Do you think that might happen?”

Wynne tightened the cravat a little more snugly than was necessary. “ _No.”_

“Okay, okay, I give, stop choking me!” Alistair stuck a finger between the cravat and his neck, and gulped.

“Nothing is going to happen, Alistair.”

He sighed. “You’re right. I know you’re right.” He lifted his head in alarm. “But supposing someone misplaces the rings?”

“Then you will be married _without_ rings, and it won’t matter. The rings aren’t what’s important.”

“You’re right, you’re right.” He paused. "But supposing somebody eats the cake and there's a big scramble to replace it?"

"Alistair, that's already happened!"

"Right, yeah..." He paled, again. “But supposing Velanna wasn’t lying about _all_ those elven rituals and the marriage really won’t be valid in the eyes of elvhenan?”

Wynne had planned for this one. “Velanna,” she called. “I know you’re nearby, so you had better come on out.”

The elf skulked into the antechamber behind the room where the ceremony was to be held. She muttered something to the effect of not having to listen to any shem mages, but quickly cleared her throat at Wynne’s pleasant “What was that, dear?”

Alistair glared at her sulkily. You couldn’t trust mage women who wore their hair in messy buns. They always did these things to him.

“Don’t you have something to say to Alistair, dear?” Wynne said.

Velanna rolled her eyes and grumbled something.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think we caught that.”

Velanna snorted a harsh exhale. “I’msorryIliedabouttheritualsnoneofthemarerealyourmarriagewillbeperfectlyvalidevenifyouareafoolishgullibleshemlenmayyourlifetogetherbetrulyjoyfulgoodbye.” And then she called up a network of roots and disappeared under the earth, going straight through the foundations of bedrock.

“See?” Wynne said triumphantly.

“Yes, yes, alright,” Alistair conceded.

“Everything is going to be fine,” the mage said soothingly. “In a few minutes, you’ll be a married man.”

He straightened slightly. “I will, won’t I?”

Wynne smiled and patted his cheek. “I hope you know how proud I am.”

“I know, Wynne.”

There was a warm pause.

“But,” said Alistair, “Supposing we all get attacked by blight wolves?”

\--

“Sleeves?”

“One each at the wrists, plus one at each bicep.”

“Boots?”

“Two each.”

“Bandolier?”

“Six, plus every kind of bomb I know how to make and most poisons known in Thedas.”

“Plus the one in your hair, obviously.”

“Obviously.”

“Thighs?”

“Three total.”

“And the two big ones at your hips.”

“And the two extras on my back.”

“So that’s…eh…let’see…how many total…” Oghren scratched his head. “Ain’t got a head for numbers.”

“Twenty-two,” Tabris provided. “Twenty two blades, with additional bombs and poisons.”

At that moment, Sten stooped as he entered, carrying a big intimidating axe. "May it serve you faithfully in your ritual, kadan," he intoned, presenting it to her.

"Thank you, Sten. It's very nice."

The Qunari smiled faintly, and ducked back out to take his place in the benches. "Now if only someone could explain to me what a wedding is..." he mumbled, receding.

"Gonna use that big, intimidating axe?" Oghren asked.

“Maybe," Tabris said, hefting it. "It might be overkill.”

“Oh, overkill,” Shianni said wearily, watching the bride and her best man recount the bride’s personal weaponry. “We surely wouldn’t want that. _Obviously_ nothing about any part of this situation is _overkill.”_

Tabris blinked at her. “So…is that a yes or a no to the axe?”


	25. The Ceremony

The bride and the groom walked the aisle together without any incident whatsoever, although the bride did clank a little with every step. Either way, they both looked lovely.

The groom, with unshed tears in his eyes, recounted his vows, which he’d spent many weeks painstakingly writing and revising. By the time he was done professing every specific detail of just how very much he loved the bride, nearly everyone in the audience was sniffling with the sheer emotionality of what they had just witnessed.

The bride said, “Same.” The groom burst into tears.

The rings were exchanged, as were meaningful gazes full of feeling.

The officiator asked if there were any objections.

The bride and groom briefly looked to the back doors, half expecting someone to burst in with an objection. Several loaded seconds later, the officiator pronounced bride and groom to be husband and wife, and whole room relaxed.

Alistair had finally succeeded in marrying the woman he loved. Tabris had finally succeeded in marrying.

There was a kiss.

It was nice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> they finally fuckign get fuckin married  
> and it only took 25 chapters


	26. The Reception

The ceremony emptied out into the main hall of Vigil’s Keep for the truly important part of the wedding—the eating and the getting drunk and the embarrassing the newlyweds.

They sat side by side at the head of the feasting table.

“Nice vows,” Alistair snickered.

“Shut up,” Tabris groaned.

“I’ll shut up _now,_ in honor of our wedding day,” he acquiesced, “But rest assured, my dear, next week, next month, next year and every year after that, it’ll be ‘Hey, Tabris, remember how at our wedding—‘”

“Shut _uuup.”_ Tabris’s slouched down in the chair. Alistair patted her on the back sympathetically.

“Don’t worry, dear. Remember, you brought this upon yourself. You married me.”

“I did do that.” She sat up, shaking her head. “Imagine that. Us. Married.”

“Maker, you’re right. We’re a married couple.”

The newlyweds sat and processed this. “Well, that was nice,” Tabris said. “Let’s get drunk.”

And so began the toasts.

Oghren stood up first. He didn’t sway, not even a little, and lifted a heavy pewter goblet strong and steady. “The two of you,” he said thickly, “are the best damn nug-humping sods I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing.” Then he choked up a little and seemed to decide that this would be sufficient, for he slammed his goblet on the table and downed it at once. Felsi, sitting beside him with the baby in her lap, rolled her eyes and tugged him down into his seat.

“I, too, have a toast,” Zevran said—or began to say, because before the second word was out of his mouth, two of Leliana’s agents responded to a sharp look from their mistress by sharply sitting the Antivan elf back down. Leliana’s murderous glare kept him quiet for the remainder of the toasts.

Then Nathaniel stood up, smiling proudly. With one hand he picked up his wine glass, and with the other, withdrew a piece of folded parchment from his suit jacket, which began to unfold…and unfold…and unfold, all the way down to the floor. The wedding party recoiled slightly in psychic horror.

Nathaniel cleared his throat. “Before I begin the toast proper, let me just say a few things. First…”

By the time he had finally finished the second course was being served. Tabris, who had listened the whole way through, clapped enthusiastically. Nathaniel beamed.

Leliana’s team of expert chefs (absolutely none of whom, obviously, were secretly apostates using culinary creation magic) had done an excellent job on the creation of the wedding feast, but not as excellent as job as the wedding guests did on the consumption of the wedding feast. Soon enough the long tables were cleared away for the dancing. The raucous and beginning-to-be-fairly-drunk wedding guests shoved the newlyweds onto the floor to share the first dance.

Tabris and Alistair stared at each other in abject horror as they slowly realized the great oversight.

“Do you know how to dance?” Tabris whispered.

Alistair shook his head, and whispered back, “No. Do you?”

“I can do a few alienage jigs. But they require at least seven people and a chair.”

“Damn. That won’t do.”

“Okay, okay, listen,” Tabris whispered, increasingly aware of all the eyes on them. “Alistair, we’re graceful people—”

“We are?

“Of course we are, we’re warriors. Really damn good ones, too, given that we’re still alive.”

“Right, but what does that have to do with dancing?”

“Dancing’s…a conversation. Just like fighting is an argument. Let’s just do what we do when we fight.”

“I don’t think a shield bash approximates any dance moves I’ve heard of.”

“Just take my hands, dummy.”

At that point, the mostly-drunk wedding guests had grown impatient and had mostly all started dancing, terribly, so nobody noticed the complete disaster of the Warden-Commander and her new husband attempting to dance together for what, they were realizing, was the first time.

Luckily, they didn’t much notice either.

At one point in the proceedings, Velanna interrupted. Tabris at that pointed had danced with her father, both her cousins, and rather a lot of the wardens. All of them very politely made no comment about her dancing. She was back to dancing with Alistair now, as incompetently and happily as ever.

Velanna interrupted their approximation of a waltz with an abrupt, “You didn’t throw the bouquet!”

Tabris, on her second glass of wine, blinked pleasantly. “Wh—?”

“The bouquet!” Velanna, on her fifth, insisted. “That’s—that’s the tradition, right? This sheml—city elf, thing? Throwing bouquets?”

“It’s Andrastian, yes,” Alistair said, mystified.

“But I didn’t have a bouquet,” Tabris said. “I had some swords.”

“A lot of swords,” Alistair corrected.

“A lot of them, yes. And daggers.”

“And poisons. And the bombs, don’t forget those.”

Velanna stared in frustrated consternation. “Well—then you should have thrown one of those things, instead!”

“Thrown a bomb, at a wedding?” Tabris paused. “Actually, I admit that sounds like fun.”

“Augh!” Velanna stamped her foot. “You both—you’re useless! Terrible! And—and you can’t dance!”

Velanna stamped off. Tabris turned to her husband. “Us? Can’t dance? The nerve of her.”

Sigrun appeared at her elbow, rolling her eyes. “Can’t you see she’s upset?”

“Velanna is usually upset,” Alistair pointed out. “Or lying about Dalish traditions. That’s another thing she usually is.”

Sigrun gave them a meaningful look. “Didn’t you see her talking to Shianni earlier?”

Come to think of it, she _had_ been standing close to Tabris’s cousin, clasping hands and leaning in awfully close—and then, Shianni had broken away, and Tabris hadn’t seen her since.

“Oh, no,” she said, color draining from her face.

“What?” Alistair asked. Tabris gave him a pointed look. “Oh,” he said. “Oh, no…”

Tabris sighed. This was old hat to her by now. She cracked her neck and rolled her well-tailored sleeves up. A few poison darts fell out and clattered to the floor.

“Oh no you don’t!” Sigrun said sternly. “You are _not_ running off to solve everyone’s personal problems! Not on your wedding day!”

“But Sigrun,” the Warden-Commander said helplessly.

“No! No!” Sigrun started to back away, her hands raised in warning. “No, you aren’t allowed to think about this anymore! Forget I said anything! I will take care of it. _You_ will have a nice damned evening for once. Alright?”

“Alright,” Tabris said, unconvinced.

“It’ll be fine,” Sigrun said, a little manically. “I’ll find Velanna. I’ll get—Soris! Yes, Soris! To find Shianni—and we’ll work something out!”

“He’ll be by the buffet,” Tabris put in helpfully, before Sigrun dashed off into the crowd after Velanna.

She and Alistair resumed their approximate dance at the next song. Only a few measures into it, Alistair sighed. “You’re not going to stop thinking about it, are you?”

“So sue me! I didn’t get to be Warden-Commander by _not_ micromanaging everyone’s personal lives.”

“Technically, dear,” Alistair said, gently spinning his wife in a pretty decent circle-type shape, “you got to be Warden-Commander by killing a big dragon. And because I didn’t want to.”

“Well, aren’t you grateful?” Tabris said grumpily.

“You know I am, love.”

“I know, I know.”


	27. The Gifts

What with one thing or another, it was the time for the presentation of the gifts.

Technically speaking it wasn’t traditional to open the gifts _at_ the reception. Alistair was fairly sure that the correct course of action was to open them politely out of sight of anyone who might see your reaction to their gift, and then send out a slew of excruciating thank-you notes of varying levels of dishonesty.

But as it happened, a trio of bright-eyed, bushy-tailed warden-recruits were a little overeager and star struck, and also, had apparently been betting amongst themselves which of their gifts the couple would like the best.

“We love them all equally,” Tabris said diplomatically to the silverware, the potted plant, and the oven mitts. The warden-recruits fell to mumbling and deflecting, and soon scurried away.

Unfortunately, this triggered a reaction. Suddenly a great many of the distinguished personages at the wedding were absolutely insistent upon presenting the gifts _now._

Oghren shoved his way to the front of the crowd and thrust at them a roughly—though very effortfully—wrapped brown paper package.

“Baby booties?” Alistair said, opening it.

“Felsi knit ‘em for the nugget,” Oghren said proudly. “They’ve outgrown ‘em, though, so I thought—hey, you should have ‘em, for when you have nuggets of your own running around.”

“I hate to say it,” Tabris said, with a twinge of genuine sorrow, “But the chances of us getting pregnant are practically in the negatives. Even if we _weren’t_ wardens.”

“Bah!” Oghren waves a hand. “Don’t need to pop ‘em out yourself for them to be yours.”

“I…guess that’s true,” Alistair said slowly.

“Definitely—something to think about,” Tabris agreed.

Oghren, somewhat choked up, clapped them both on the shoulders. Alistair obliging crouched slightly to allow for it. Then he said, “Hey, whenever you get around to getting’ a kid—you’ll name ‘em after ole Oghren, right? Seein’ as the nugget’s named for you, eh?”

The newlyweds glanced at each other, having an entire conversation with nothing but meaningful looks in the space of half a second. _Well, it’s only fair,_ said Tabris.

 _Absolutely not,_ said Alistair.

 _He has a point,_ said Tabris.

 _No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no,_ said Alistair.

 _We’ll discuss this later,_ Tabris concluded, dangerously.

Zevran presented them with a fine set of daggers, a fine set of boots, and an enormous life-sized portrait of himself, reclining nude, painted by one of the most respected painters of Antiva.

“With hopes that you will be inspired,” he smirked to Alistair as the senior warden blushed such an alarming shade of red that Tabris became briefly concerned for her new husband’s longevity. Zevran swanned off, briefly high-fiving Oghren on the way through. The two men chortled to each other and Tabris instantly knew the real culprit here.

“Those two,” she muttered to Alistair. “This is just like the Broma Brothers incident.”

“Really?” Alistair mused, the blush slowly subsiding as he tactfully covered the portrait with a tablecloth. “I thought that time was better.”

“Are the Broma Brothers here?” one of the distinguished guests asked in a lilting Orlesian accent. “Oh, my sister and I adore them! I have heard _such_ tales! Are they truly here?”

“Oh, yes,” Alistair said, nodding, before Tabris could get a word in. “Yes, they certainly are. Tell all your friends. Demand a performance!”

“That’s right,” Tabris said slowly. “Yes, you see that dwarf and elf over there? That’s them. Go and talk to them. Oh, have someone make an announcement—they will perform for us, certainly.”

What followed was perhaps the most amusing hour and a half of Tabris’s life, during which she clapped, whooped, and drank champagne, not breaking eye contact with Zevran the entire time, who was learning to juggle _very_ quickly.

After that debacle had run its course, Justice cleared a way through the crowd of guests, with Anders in tow. Justice had a notable ability to clear crowds. For the wedding, he was in a face-concealing bucket helmet, with several pounds of fragrant herbs stuffed into his finest suit of armor. Some of the young bachelorettes in attendance seemed to find such an imposing, mysterious character alluring, and a cluster of them had been hovering within a few feet of him all evening, each daring each other in giggling undertones to go and talk to him first.

Justice didn’t seem terribly aware of this.

“Congratulations on your day of union, Warden-Commander,” the spirit said. “The ceremony was very beautiful.”

“Swore I could have heard him sniffling the whole time,” Anders said.

“I do not sniffle,” Justice said. “This body is not capable of it.”

Anders rolled his eyes good naturedly, and shoved his offering at the couple. It was lumpy, fuzzy, and appeared to be made of wool. “Didn’t really have time to wrap it, sorry. Only learned how to knit the other day.”

It was a pair of matched blue-and-silver scarves. Approximately. More or less. Tabris instantly put hers on, and made eyes at Alistair until he followed suit. “They’re lovely,” she said. “You did the multiple colors and everything.”

Anders rubbed the back of his head, embarrassed. “Yes, and it was a right pain in the arse, too, so you’d better wear it every day.”

Alistair blinked. “So how did you learn,” he enunciated the word _learn_ with a certain inflection of doubt, “how to knit, anyway?”

“Justice taught me.”

“They have knitting in the Fade?”

“They do not,” the spirit said. “Kristoff was fond of it, however, and I was able to instruct Anders based on his memories.”

“Oh. Well. Very nice.”

Anders started to subtly scoot away from the engagement, but Justice firmly grasped him by the shoulder and insistently tugged him back. “And?” the spirit said archly.

The mage sighed. “And for the second part of my gift,” he said, in steadily decreasing volume, until he was mumbling incoherently. Justice nudged him sternly. Anders straightened and said again, more clearly: “And for the second part of my gift, I have an apology. For that time after we defeated the Mother and the Commander got really drunk at the victory feast and forgot which tall, blonde, human man with stubble and excellent jokes I was, and I didn’t stop her for five whole minutes. Totally my fault. Shouldn’t have done it. So. Sorry. Hope that removes a source of marital strife down the road.”

Justice nodded approvingly. The mortified Warden-Commander dragged her fingers down her face. “We _said_ we’d never speak of it,” she hissed.

“He insisted!” Anders said, raising his hands in surrender. “Now if you’ll excuse me, now that I’ve finished embarrassing myself, I think I’ll go and have a drink with one of those Broma Brothers. The pretty one.”

“We recommend the dwarf,” Alistair called after him. Then as soon as the mage was out of sight and Justice had politely excused himself, he turned, flabbergasted, to his wife. “Do—do we all look the same to you? Is that it?”

“No!” Tabris said vehemently. She paused. “Okay, a little—but only because you’re all so damned tall! It’s hard to make out the details of a face when you’re craning your neck all the time, and we all wear the same uniform, and Andraste’s _tits,_ can we stop talking about this now?”

“For now,” Alistair said, smirking. “Although, let me tell you, if you ever want to invite a third to our bedchamber, Anders would _not_ be my first choice. In fact, I have a list—”

“You liar, you do not.”

He gave a slight pout. “Well, alright, maybe I don’t. But I will _soon.”_

“Pft. Of course you will. But if you get your list, I get mine, and _my_ first choice is Morrigan—”

“Alright, alright,” Alistair said, paling. “I’ll drop it.”

“Maybe in giant spider form, wouldn’t that be exciting—”

“I said I’d drop it!”

“Or as a furious swarm of bees—”

“Tabris, _please!”_


	28. The Ride Home

Philomene and Bernadette Delcroix shared a peaceful carriage ride to their inn, late in the night. It had been a wonderful party. Oh, they hadn’t strictly been invited—but the Sisters Delcroix _never_ missed a good party, and this was probably the best party that anyone in Ferelden thrown. Not that that was setting the bar particularly high.

 Their parents had paid for their Grand Tour of Thedas upon their completion of university, and their foray into the rustic charms of Ferelden had mostly been…well, lacking. But, they agreed, the party had been _lovely._

“What I can’t believe,” Philomene was saying, “was that those boorish Warden guards wouldn’t let us in. Sooner permit darkspawn, he said!”

“The nerve of these country bumpkins,” Bernadette agreed with a sniff.

“Good thing about that kitchen entrance, though.”

“Yes, very good. So glad we came. We got to see the Broma Brothers!”

“Oh, I know! We’ll have to write father tonight. Or, er,” Philomene swayed slightly, hiccupping, “perhaps tomorrow morning. Tomorrow afternoon.”

“Definitely tomorrow afternoon,” Bernadette agreed.

“So that mysterious deep-voiced man in the silver armor,” Philomene said, waggling her fashionably done eyebrows. “I saw you talking to him.”

“Oh, Philomene, he’s stolen my heart!” Bernadette sighed. “So tall and dashing, so _polite._ Nothing at all like the rest of these unmannerly Fereldans. He smelled of thyme and rosemary, and something else…something distinctly _him.”_

“Why, Bernadette,”  her sister teased. “You’re positively smitten.”’

Bernadette shrieked slightly and draped herself across the seat of the carriage, clutching her pearls to her neck. “I’m in _love!”_

“Did you get his name?”

“Er…” Bernadette put an uncertain finger to her smudged lips. “Er, Justin, I think?”

“That’s a good Orlesian name,” Philomene said approvingly. “He must be a very senior warden.”

“I must go back tomorrow. I must see his face. I wonder what his eyes look like. I’ll bet they’re blue. The _brightest_ blue. I could practically see them sparkling from inside his visor.”

“What _I_ want to know,” Philomene said,  “was who that very tall man in the mask was. I didn’t know this was a _masquerade_ ball. I didn’t realize Fereldans were even capable of doing anything so tasteful.”

“I don’t think it was, dear sister. Perhaps he was simply the most cultured person present—next to my Justin, of course, though he was wearing a sort of mask too, wasn’t he?”

“Oh, you’re right. I only wish I’d been brave enough to talk to him,” Philomene sighed.

“You’re so shy,” her sister teased. “You’re the most charming and beautiful woman in the world, you could have any man you wanted.”

“I know, I know. I think I was a bit intimidated by his height. And his outfit.”

“Oh, I saw it. So unique! I loved the metal pauldrons and the gothic bodice. It’s retro Tevinter fashion, I think.”

“Yes, I was talking to one of the friends he brought. He told me he was an architect from Tevinter. Imagine that, an architect! That must be such an interesting profession.”

“I don’t know about those friends of his,” Bernadette said doubtfully. “They’re not the most wonderful conversationalists, are they? And all that makeup, I thought was a bit _too_ ostentatious.”

“I think they were Rivaini.”

“Yes, you’re probably right, dear sister. You almost always are.”

“I know I am.”

The carriage rattled on in silence for a few moments.

“My favorite part,” Bernadette said, “was when that enormous bear crashed the party. It was such unusual entertainment.”

“Yes, these Fereldans certainly have unique taste in hosting. It’s all very rustic, isn’t it?”

“Very rustic, yes.”

“So,” Philomene said, “which Broma brother do you think is most attractive?”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous!” Bernadette scoffed. “Couldn’t you see that they’re identical?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pls send me justice/berndatte and architect/philomene fanart


	29. The Wedding Night

The exhausted newlyweds slowly made their way up the unfortunate number of stairs to their bedchamber, stepping around the various passed-out wedding guests draped across the steps.

“Well, that was a hell of an ordeal,” Tabris sighed.

“I know. I can’t believe about that bear…”

“ _I_ can. You made them mad after the other week.”

“That was not my fault!”

“I know, I know. Anyway, good thing about Nathaniel’s honor guard. Now I just want to sleep. Feels like I haven’t had any in months.”

“Me too,” Alistair said, yawning. It would probably be dawn soon. “Good thing we had the wedding night early.”

“Aw, but yesterday we didn’t have Oghren’s wedding gift. The one he gave us privately.”

“That thing came with an instruction manual thicker than my training manual. It’ll take weeks to decipher.”

“Frankly, I’m not even sure which one of us is supposed to wear it…”

“Maybe both of us at once?” Alistair ventured uncertainly.

“I suppose we’ll have to consult the manual.”

“Not tonight, though.”

“Maker, no, not tonight.”

They made it to their bedchamber, yawning. “It was nice to see the Messenger again, though,” Tabris commented sleepily. “He seems to be doing well. Gift was nice, too. I mean, it was just a pretty rock he found, but it was a _nice_ rock. You can tell he’ll get the hang of how things like society and gift-giving work, soon.”

“Tabris,” Alistair said nervously, opening the door, “I don’t know entirely how I feel about you having darkspawn friends. I always knew you were charming, but…”

“Should I formally introduce you at the next party, maybe? Would that make it less awkward?”

“I honestly have no idea.” He thought about it. “Maybe.”

Tabris flicked on the gaslight, and found the bed already occupied. “Zevran,” she said, unsurprised. “And Anders. And… _Nathaniel?”_

This last name was spoken at such pitch and volume that the Warden in question woke up, yelled, and fell out of bed, in a spectacular state of undress.

“That’s our _bed,”_ Alistair sputtered.

“Okay, the other two, I was expecting. But _Nate?”_ Tabris said.

“Ah, shit,” Anders said blearily, sitting up and glancing at Nathaniel on the floor. “Sorry, Commander, wrong door. Thought this was my room.”

“Your room is on the _third_ floor.”

“Ah, um. Hm. ” The mage tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Nate, don’t be rude, explain ourselves.”

Nathaniel stirred at this, righting himself. Then, his bleary gaze slowly landed on first Anders, then Zevran, then, finally, Tabris and Alistair.

There was a long, heavy silence.

“You know,” he said, breaking it. “Something very similar happened to me once in Wycome.”

And then, without another word, he leapt out the window.

Tabris turned her glare on Zevran. The elf only shrugged. “I believe Nathaniel was attempting to salve his longing for a certain blond, elven mage. We were only happy to assist.” He pointed at the opposite wall. “Also, I have thought long and hard about it, and finally, I have come to the conclusion that you should hang my painting right over there, above the fireplace.”

Alistair blinked slowly. “Can you please just go somewhere else?”

“We’re very tired,” Tabris put in.

“Goodnight, my dear wardens,” Zevran chuckled, tugging Anders along and shutting the door with his foot behind him.

“I knew this would happen,” Tabris groused.

“What, Zev and Anders? Or someone other than us having relations in our bed? Or Nathaniel jumping out the window?”

“No, this exact situation, specifically,” she clarified. “I’m pretty good on foresight.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Alistair muttered, making his way over to the nightstand. There was a bound sheaf of papers there.

“What’s that?” Tabris asked.

“I think Anders left it. It’s titled…” He read it aloud, “’Ser Fucko, the Templar Who Ruined Everything, and then Died’. Geez. Is this about me?” he said anxiously. “Tabris, this isn’t about me, is it?”

He handed it to Tabris, who paged through it. “Hey, this is pretty good,” she said. “A few run-ons, but otherwise this really has potential. I had no idea Anders wrote so well.”

“Please don’t buy him a blank book. Last time you encouraged one of your brood to make up stories, it didn’t end well for me….”

“Maker, Alistair, when will you stop bringing that up? It was only _one_ bear.”

By the time they had replaced the sheets on the bed and straightened things out sufficiently to be tolerable, they were dead on their feet. They hadn’t even fully taken off the suits yet, and were halfway considering just collapsing and sleeping in them.

At that moment, the door burst open, kicked by a bare elven foot. It was Shianni, carrying Velanna bridal style.

“Cousin!” cried Shianni.

“Warden-Commander!” cried Velanna.

“Sweet Maker, let us rest,” cried Alistair, real tears sliding down his cheeks.

“I see Sigrun was successful in her quest,” Tabris said. “I will have to make sure to reward her properly.” Maybe some _scented_ soap on a rope.

“Cousin,” Shianni said desperately. “Look, I know I said I’d never get married, and would be a strong independent single Bann forever—”

“But we’re in _love,”_ Velanna finished, clinging tighter to Shianni’s neck. “And  we’ve talked about it, and we’re going to run away together.”

“Yes, that’s right,” Shianni said fervently. “We’re going to elope to Nevarra, and with our forces combined, we’ll overthrow the shem power base together and establish a new elven homeland for Dalish and city elves alike.”

“While making out,” Velanna added.

“Yes, while making out.” Shianni nodded vigorously. “A _lot.”_

“That’s very nice,” Tabris said wearily. “I’m so happy for you. And tired. So tired.”

“We’ll keep it short, Commander. We just wanted to ask for your blessing.”

“And for you to be the godmother of our children.”

“We’re going to have six.”

“Yes. Of course.” Tabris yawned. “Velanna, you’ll be back within a month to resume your patrols, right? I can’t really do without my favorite elven mage, you know.”

“Obviously, Commander,” Velanna said irritably. “I could hardly leave you forever.”

“Good, good,” Tabris said, yawning again. “Have a good elopement. Send plenty of postcards.”

“Of course!” Shianni beamed. “And, uh—if you could just, y’know, explain all this to Cyrion, that would be grand.”

“Yes. Certainly. In the morning.”

The elven women beamed at her, and at each other.

 “Thank you, Commander.”

“We love you, cousin!”

The two of them bounded off. Tabris collapsed back onto the bed, where Alistair was already sprawled, with Barkspawn using his legs as a cushion. He shifted to curl around her.

“Alistair,” she mumbled, “I love you.”

“I love you too, Alrian.”

There was a few moments of blissful peace, wherein the sun began to rise, the birds began to chirp, and Tabris almost managed to fall asleep.

Then, so loudly that it carried up through five floors and a solid oaken door—“ _Why are there darkspawn sleeping in the kitchen?!!”_


	30. The Epilogue

The aftermath of the wedding was much like the aftermath of a natural disaster, or a Blight. Stunned, shell-shocked survivors were left to clean up the remnants of the terrible event, and then, slowly, to re-locate their places in normal society.

The depopulated city of Amaranthine slowly came back to life, as fully half of its citizens had been involved in the wedding and were only now stumbling blearily back into their regular lives. Trade picked up again. Life was good.

The entire alienage of Denerim slowly filtered back to Denerim—most of them, anyway. Some remained in the outskirts of Amaranthine, eventually building a village community. Some joined the nearby Dalish clan. Some even became wardens.

Warden Powell and Warden Haren received promotions and hefty bonuses for their brave service in the long battle of keeping the Warden-Commander mollified for the duration of the proceedings. They  were granted medals of honor and bravery in a solemn ceremony officiated by the Seneschal.

The apostate Chef Beaugendre was unexpectedly discovered by Templars, and would have had to flee for his life were it not for the intervention of Sten, who soundly prevented pursuit by knocking the pair’s bucket heads together and rendering them soundly unconscious. “It was a good cake,” was all the comment Sten would provide.

The manuscript version of _Ser Fucko, the Templar Who Ruined Everything, and Then Died,_ was never put officially in print, but was somehow picked up by an independent press and distributed on the sly. It became a wild hit in the Circles, passed from mage to mage beneath the Templar’s notice, even memorized to be recited orally when no print versions were available. It became considered a classic of subversive literature, deep anti-Circle subtext hidden in every farcical word.

Bernadette Delcroix eventually discovered that the object of her affections was in fact a possessed corpse. She was not deterred. Justice was reportedly very flattered, but still considered himself married. They did, however, continue to write each other.

Philomene Delcroix never again saw the tall, handsome architect again, but she did go on to start a wildly successful line of retro-Tevinter fashion, which became all the rage in Val Royeux for an entire week.

Mistress Woolsey was never again disrespected for the remainder of her life.

Cyrion eventually accepted his adopted daughter’s elopement to Antiva. He consoled himself by sending his other daughter regular lists of his favorite street urchins, with strong implications that his biological clock was ticking and he wanted some damn grandkids.

Seneschal Varel was a shameless accomplice in this venture.

Soris eventually married a Rivaini silk-merchant and settled down in Highever. When Tabris attended the (much more reasonable) wedding, she disparaged him nigh-endlessly for marrying a human. Alistair, also in attendance, made no comment, but was reportedly barely suppressing a smirk the entire time.

Sten returned to Par Vollen, but not before Leliana managed to braid flowers into his hair, and not before thoroughly interrogating the kitchens for all their best pastry recipes.

Leliana graciously coordinated most of the clean-up, and when she departed, she took a half-dozen new disciples. An assortment of those who had assisted with her wedding plans had found themselves completely in awe of her ability, and pledged their service to her. They would go on to form the core of Leliana’s spy network.

Zevran was nearly assassinated by a half-dozen Crows in his guest room, and once they were dead, suddenly decided he had to return to Antiva to continue his work. He kissed half the Keep goodbye, and graciously hung his wedding gift in the newlywed’s room before departing.

With Zevran gone and Velanna out of the picture, Anders and Nathaniel had no choice but to awkwardly begin dating. They seemed happy enough. Oghren never let them hear the end of it.

Sigrun and Shale briefly formed a crime-fighting duo—if “crime” could here be defined as meddlesome birds, and bushes that dared to exist while not on fire.

Velanna and Shianni returned from Nevarra, wearing large floppy sunhats and colorful flower necklaces, with three elven orphans in tow. They built a cottage not far from Vigil’s Keep together, planning their glorious new elven homeland for city and Dalish elves alike. Tabris was not only the best godmother any child could hope for, but also bankrolled the entire operation. No one dared object.

Oghren and Felsi would sometimes bring over the nugget for playdates. The children got along famously, but ended up teaching each other so many cross-linguistic swear words that their parents had to have a Talk, involving nature magic and a big axe. The dispute was eventually resolved by the Warden-Commander, but she had to use all four ranks of Persuade to do it.

Tabris and Alistair briefly considered a honeymoon, but eventually decided against it. They were simply too Fereldan to want to go anywhere else, and they had not too long ago traipsed across the entire damn country too many times to ever want to do it again. Besides, after the events of the Darkspawn Civil War, Tabris couldn’t much stand to leave the Keep for too long. Paranoid thoughts about the safety of the Keep and everyone in it never entirely left her mind—even after the siege of Vigil’s Keep had gone over extraordinarily well, she continued to obsessively fortify the keep, until it had become perhaps the most secure building in all of Ferelden.

As a compromise, they took a day trip into Amaranthine, holding hands and window shopping. Alistair would stop every citizen they met, and introduce them to His Wife. He would casually mention to every business owner whose shop they patronized that that was His Wife over there looking at the daggers, didn’t His Wife just have the best taste in weaponry, and oh, did he mention how much he loved His Wife? It was about the time that he started introducing His Wife to the local cats and dogs that Tabris told him to knock it off.

Of course, Tabris was not above a little bragging either. She said it so casually that one could imagine that she wasn’t doing it on purpose, but—if one watched carefully—one could see the faintly satisfied smirk on her face, as she asked where the hell Her Husband had gotten to, if someone could call Her Husband to dinner, if anyone knew where Her Husband was that afternoon.

“You know, on the whole, I think it went over pretty well,” Alistair said one morning over breakfast.

“Oh, yes,” Tabris agreed, sipping her morning coffee. She paused, watching the steam rise, then said, “Now let’s never fucking do that ever again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome to the end of the fic everybody. to celebrate, lets reminisce abt our favorite big fat warden moments. here are mine:
> 
> *tabris jumping out the window to escape every slightly awkward situation  
> *darkspawn showing up to the warden-commanders wedding  
> *shianni and velanna u-hauling harder than anyone has ever u-hauled  
> *dalish wedding customs  
> *sometimes morrigan was the spiders  
> *shale is the largest and most powerful of the maids  
> *spawnbusters  
> *nathaniel is a mess  
> *sigrun and oghren go shopping
> 
> expect a companion oneshot that didnt quite fit into the narrative flow of the story. 
> 
> thx for embarking with me on this long and stupid journey. its been a pleasure yall.

**Author's Note:**

> [my tumblr](http://gayspacejew.tumblr.com/)   
>  [my oc blog](http://pile-of-dragon-filth.tumblr.com/)


End file.
